


The Whole of Us (is greater than the sum of our broken pieces)

by Nicnac



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Angst, Communication, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional Support, Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Past Child Abuse, Past Child Neglect, Platonic Love, Plus Bill Cipher is a jerk, Science Dad AU, Tiny Twins, Unconditional Love, as per usual
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2018-08-17 00:14:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 37
Words: 119,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8123125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nicnac/pseuds/Nicnac
Summary: Stanford Pines was going to make his legacy by becoming the man who changed the world. Children weren't really part of the plan. At least, they weren't supposed to be.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a predominantly happy, fluffy story about people who love each other, however there are some themes in here that some people might find emotionally disturbing, so here is the official trigger warning for: child abuse, child neglect, physical abuse, verbal abuse, emotional abuse, controlling and manipulative behavior, one allusion to attempted sexual abuse, and substance abuse. All physical abuse takes place off-screen, but there are explicitly depicted scenes of verbal and emotional abuse. Please let me know if you need further information. With all that being said, I do want to emphasize again this story is more happy than sad, and the main focus is on the emotional support family and friends give each other when they have been or are the victims of abuse.

There was a knock on Stanford’s door, and he looked up, blinking much like a startled owl might. No one ever knocked on this door aside from the mail man when he had something that had to be signed for. It was far too early in the day for it to be him – it wasn’t quite eight o’clock yet – not to mention the mail man had quickly learned that he had to pound on the door if he wanted a reasonable chance of Stanford hearing it. This knock had seemed almost hesitant, and Stanford probably wouldn’t have noticed it at all if he hadn’t happened to be in the same room. Certainly not if he had been down in the basement. He really should think about getting proximity alerts in place for the outside doors, he’d just never bothered to do so yet because normally no one ever came to call.

Except for now it seemed, because whoever it was knocked on the door a second time. It wasn’t a hesitant knock after all he decided, just soft, as though the being on the other side lacked the muscle power to make the sound any louder. Well, if the gnomes were actually deigning to knock rather than breaking into his kitchen and stealing whatever they wanted from his cupboards, then that was behavior that ought to be encouraged. Stanford stood up and went to answer the door.

It wasn’t gnomes. Standing on Stanford’s front porch were two tiny children: a boy and a girl who were probably siblings, possibly twins, and looked to be between the ages of… three and seven. They both had somewhat curly brown hair – not unlike Stanford’s own in fact – in cuts that were medium-long for their respective genders and incredibly shaggy. They were dressed to ward off the morning chill, the girl in a sweater that looked like it had once belonged to a full-grown woman, the turtleneck creating a kind of cowl on her and the hem dropping below her knees like a dress, and the boy had on a pair of jeans that stopped short at the ankles and a sweatshirt that stopped short at the wrists. They were also each wearing a backpack, the straps of which were fraying with age. In fact, there didn’t appear to be a single thing about the two that didn’t look worn or frayed or unkempt or all three at once.

The girl had her left hand poised in the air with a sweater sleeve flopped over it, like she were about to knock on the door again. Her right hand was holding on to her probable brother’s left hand, or so Stanford assumed since that hand was engulfed in a sweater sleeve as well. The boy’s other hand had a tight grip on what appeared to be a letter.

It wasn’t the strangest thing Stanford had seen since coming to Gravity Falls, not by a long shot. But it existed somewhere in that uncanny valley of strange, the almost normality of it making it far more perturbing than it would have otherwise been.

“Where are your parents?” Stanford asked, looking around behind the children as though expecting the adults that belonged to them to suddenly appear.

“Our mama left. She said to give you this,” the boy answered, offering the letter up to Stanford.

Stanford took it from him. The envelope was unsealed with Stanford’s name, first and last, written on the front. Inside there were three sheets of paper. Two appeared to be official documents of some sort, printed on stiffer paper that was almost cardstock, and the third, which had been placed in front of the other two, was a handwritten letter that had been penned on motel stationary. He read that first.

_Stanford,_

_You probably don’t remember me. I know I wouldn’t remember you, except for the circumstances. We met about six and a half years ago in a crappy little bar. Your friends had dragged you out to celebrate that you finished writing your grant proposal to study weird shit in Bumfuck, Oregon. You were drunk, I was curious about the six fingers, and we ended up spending a night together that I’m pretty sure was terrible for everyone. I didn’t know until a couple months later that you left me two little surprises behind. Their names are Mabel and Mason. Since neither of them came out with six fingers, I’m sticking their birth certificates in here as proof._

_They’re good kids. Too good to deal with my shit any more. You’re smart and respectable and all that, you’ll do a better job taking care of them than I can._

_Steph_

_P.S. Mabel says to tell you Mason’s name is Dipper now. She started calling him that a couple weeks ago. I don’t know why. She’s a weird kid. They’re both weird. Good, but weird._

With a growing sense of apprehension, Stanford looked at the two birth certificates. They were for Mabel Stephanie Pines and Mason Stanford Pines, with his own name on the line for the father. Their date of birth was August 31st 1975, which, when Stanford did the math, would line up with the night he vaguely remembered that he had spent with a woman that very well may have been named Stephanie.

Stanford slowly lowered the documents to look at the children again. _His_ children. He had a son and a daughter, and how was that even possible? Well, technically Stanford understood the mechanics of how it was possible, but his brain couldn’t seem to wrap itself around how it could have happened to him. He’d had sex one time, failed to see what all the fuss about, and went back to dedicating himself to his work. That was what he had wanted to be doing all along, but Fiddleford had insisted that Stanford spend at least one night of his entire college experience having the stereotypical “college experience.” And now Stanford had two children. It was like something out of a bad after school special.

The boy, Mason – Dipper? – Mason looked about as nervous about the whole thing as Stanford was, but Mabel flashed him a grin full of crooked teeth and waved, the sleeve of her sweater flopping back and forth wildly as she did so. “Hi, Daddy!”

Oh boy.

 

* * *

 

_Well, well, well. Sixer’s got himself a pair of mini-Sixers. Now this could be interesting. And possibly problematic. Hmmm…_


	2. Chapter Two

Stanford brought the children inside, of course. He couldn’t very well leave them on the front porch. But once he got them inside and situated at the kitchen table – both of them sitting in the same chair, which Stanford supposed they were small enough to do without fear of breaking it – he found himself at a complete loss. He didn’t have the first idea of how to take care of children. The only experience he had with it was his nephew, who had cried every time Stanford had held him it seemed. (Stanley had been great with their nephew Stanford recalled, before pushing the thought away.) There was no way Stanford could handle this. No, what he would have to do is hunt down the twins’ mother and tell her thank you for the vote of confidence, but he was sure that he’d make a much worse parent than she had. While Stanford was more than willing to assist financially and perhaps arrange for the occasional visit, she would just have to take the children back. (It occurred to Stanford that the type of person that would leave her children on the front porch of a father that they had never met and then drive off without first making sure that the father was home, much less willing to take in two children whose existence he hadn’t even been aware of previously, was probably not a particularly fit parent either. He pushed that thought away too.)

Unfortunately, while Mabel or Mason would probably be able to tell him the phone number to their mother’s house or failing that give him enough information that Stanford would be able to track down the number himself, that didn’t help him now when their mother was on the road. In fact, given that the stationery that Steph had written the letter on was not from a local motel, it seemed reasonable to assume it would be a few days before she reached her home. Which meant Stanford would have to figure out what to do with the children for at least that long.

“Daddy, I’m hungry,” Mabel said. Right, children needed to be fed.

“I could make you breakfast?” Stanford suggested.

“Oooo, do you have Sugar-Coated Sugar Bombs? Or could you make us pancakes with syrup and powder sugar and whipped cream on top?” Mabel asked, bouncing in her seat.

“I’m fairly certain I don’t have any of that,” Stanford told her. He usually stocked the house up with a lot of food whenever he went to the grocery store, to minimize how frequently he had to go, but his last trip had been about a month ago, and things were starting to get pretty sparse. “I have… eggs? I think?”

“Can you make me an omelet? Pleeeeeease?” Mabel said, grinning hugely. Stanford made a mental note to talk to their mother about taking her to see an orthodontist.

“Sure,” Stanford said. He’d never made an omelet before, but it couldn’t be that hard, right? Just scramble the eggs and cook them in a flat circle, then fold it over, with some other foods inside. Stanford was pretty sure he had some cheese that was still good, and maybe some lunch meat. “Would you like an omelet as well, Mason?”

Mabel blew a raspberry. “I told Mama to tell you, his name is Dipper now. ‘Cause he’s got the Big Dipper on his forehead, see?”

Mabel reached over and pushed her brother’s bangs back to give Stanford a brief glimpse of a birthmark that did look remarkably like the Big Dipper before Mason batted her hand away and began smoothing his hair back down. “Mabel, stop it,” he said. “It’s weird.”

Oh. Well, Stanford might not know much about children, but he did know a thing or two about this. “Kids, did your mother tell you why I’m out here in Gravity Falls?” he asked, sitting down at the table across from them.

“She said you’re super smart and studying super smart people stuff,” Mabel answered.

“I suppose that’s accurate, though somewhat vague. Specifically, I’m here studying anomalies. That’s another word for things that are strange or weird. I love Gravity Falls because it has a higher concentration of anomalies, weird things, than almost anywhere else on the planet. Weird things like me.” Stanford placed his hand down on the table in front of the two children, spreading his fingers out to make it very obvious how many of them there are.

“Wow, you really do have six fingers, just like Mama said! I thought that was just a story she made up ‘cause of her medicine,” Mabel said, touching his hand. Stanford tucked away Mabel’s comment that their mother was on medication that made her lose touch with reality, at least somewhat. Maybe that was why she felt herself an unfit parent.

Mason was more hesitant than his sister, looking up at Stanford as though asking permission and only reaching out to touch after Stanford gave him a reassuring smile. Normally it bothered him having people pay attention to his hands, but the children’s interest didn’t seemed tinged with malice or disgust like he was used to expecting. They just seemed curious, as children often were.

Stanford let them inspect his hand for a moment longer, then he looked at Mason and asked, “So which would you prefer to be called? Mason or Dipper?”

The boy looked at Stanford, and then back down at his hand again before saying softly, “Dipper.”

“Dipper then. And would you like an omelet, Dipper?” Stanford asked.

“Yes please, Daddy,” Dipper said. And Stanford decided that maybe he’d be able to get through the next few days alright after all.

After the two finished eating their breakfast, Stanford took their plates and washed them in the sink, mostly to stall for time before he had to figure out what to do with them next all over again. Luckily, by the time Stanford was done Mabel had pulled a small box of crayons out of one of their backpacks, and all they required was some paper to color on. Stanford went and fetched two of the legal pads that he sometimes used for his notes when he didn’t want to commit them to one of his journals. He also got Journal 3, which he had only just started yesterday, for himself to work on. He had been planning to use this morning to catch up on some of the backlog of notes that had generated prior to the creation of his newest journal anyway, and he figured he could do that almost just as well from the kitchen table as he could down in his study, and this way he could properly supervise the two young children. His children. Right.

Dipper and Mabel didn’t seem to need any further interaction from him, happy to talk quietly with each other and draw. For Stanford’s part, while he had gotten used to working in silence the light chatter of the other two and the occasional sound of a piece of paper ripping off a pad reminded him that the silence was something that he had gotten used to, not necessarily what he preferred. For the first seventeen-and-a-half years of his life, his brother had always been right there doing his own thing while Stanford worked, and even after Stanley was gone there were the customers in the pawn shop or the people and cars passing by on the street outside or at college there had been the other students running around, always someone. It was actually a bit nice, having someone there again.

“Daddy?” Mabel said, and Stanford looked up from the Hawktopus he had been sketching.

“Yes?” He hoped she wasn’t going to tell him she was done drawing and he needed to find something else to entertain her. Maybe she was just hoping to share her surprisingly sizable stack of drawings with him.

“Dipper wants to know if he can read your book,” she told him.

“You want me to read to you from my journal?” Stanford asked Dipper, surprised and rather pleased. Aside from the university requiring regular reports on his progress so they could decide whether or not to continue funding his research, no one had expressed any desire to hear about his work. (Except for Bill, of course, but then Bill was his muse and so much a part of his work, it was hardly the same thing.) Admittedly, some of that might have been due to the fact that Stanford didn’t really interact with other people much and hadn’t since he’d moved to Gravity Falls, but it was still nice to have someone interested. And not just someone, but his own son no less.

Dipper shook his head, but before Stanford could feel disappointed, he clarified. “You don’t need to read to me. I can do it myself.”

“Dipper’s really good at reading,” Mabel added.

Stanford found himself a bit dubious of that. Sure, Dipper’s reading skills might be above average for his age, and it wasn’t as though Stanford’s journals were full of technical jargon, but they weren’t exactly Dr. Seuss books either. Still he passed the journal over to Dipper to see what the boy made of it. If nothing else, there were a number of illustrations that he and Mabel might enjoy.

Dipper flipped the book back to the beginning, though he missed the very start by a few pages, instead ending up on the two page spread about gnomes. He put his finger under the title and stared at it intently, presumably attempting to puzzle out what it said. Just when Stanford was about to offer to read it to Dipper again, the boy looked up at him. “Daddy, does gnomes have a quiet g in it?”

“Yes it does,” Stanford replied, feeling taken aback and impressed. Dipper nodded and turned back to the book, moving his finger to the first passage. “Dipper? Would you like to read the journal to me?” Stanford asked. He was curious now as to what level Dipper’s reading ability was actually at.

“Yeah, Dipper, read it to us,” Mabel enthused.

Dipper looked embarrassed by the attention, but pleased as well. “Okay,” he said, and using his finger to mark his progress, he began to read aloud. “I en-co-un-t-red.”

“Encountered,” Stanford corrected gently.

“Encountered,” Dipper repeated, flushing a little.

“What does ‘encountered’ mean?” Mabel asked.

“It means saw or met,” Stanford told her. Then he turned back to Dipper and urged him to continue.

As Dipper read, there were a number of words he had to sound out, but only rarely did Stanford have to intercede and tell him what the word was, and that was typically only for words that the children were apparently unfamiliar with. Most of the questions he had to answer were instead about the things he had written about. They wanted to know more about gnomes and the moth man and scampfires, not to mention Mabel’s frightening fascination with the leprecorn. The children seemed absolutely fascinated with his work, and Stanford immensely enjoyed sharing with them, the conversation easily carrying them into the early afternoon. And when Stanford reached over and quickly turned past the pages on himself and his muse, neither child questioned it or offered a word of complaint, for which Stanford was grateful.

After a lunch of sandwiches, Mabel asked if they could go exploring. Stanford turned that suggestion down on the grounds that it was far too dangerous in the woods for a pair of five year olds, so she compromised down to being allowed to explore the inside of the house. Which meant Stanford spent his afternoon following the two of them around, making sure they didn’t break anything or hurt themselves, and answering more questions about his work, this time about the experiments he had been working on. He was a little concerned about the fact that the two never seemed to let go of the other’s hand the entire time at first, but he eventually decided not to worry about it. They were in a new place being watched by someone they didn’t really know, for all that Mabel had seemed to instantly attach herself to Stanford as her father and Dipper seemed to be warming up to him as well. It wasn’t surprising that they might cling to each other some.

They had sandwiches again for dinner – he was really going to need to go to the store tomorrow – and then Stanford declared that Dipper and Mabel were going to have to be cleaned up.

“’Kay, but you hafta show us how to use your shower,” Mabel said.

“I was thinking a bath, actually,” Stanford said. He had vague recollections of his mother giving him and his brother baths when they were Dipper and Mabel’s age. Besides, if they were taking a shower, then he wouldn’t really be able to keep an eye on them and make sure they didn’t hurt themselves or drown or something.

“You’re going to give us a bath?” Mabel asked. She put both her hands down on the table and leaned in, her expression bursting with excitement, and Dipper looked quietly pleased as well. Which was odd as Stanford remembered hating baths as a child – actually he still hated bathing to be honest – but he supposed everyone had their own preferences.

“Yes, I’m going to give you a bath,” Stanford confirmed. He pulled their chair out and ushered them off to the bathroom, grabbing two extra towels from the linen closet along the way.

Stanford busied himself with preparing the bath for the children: warming the water up, making sure he had soap and shampoo and anything else that would be needed, and while he did that the children prepared themselves for the bath. By the time Stanford was done except for letting the tub fill up, both of them had rid themselves of their clothing on their bottom halves, and Mabel was helping Dipper pull off his t-shirt, just as she had helped him with his sweatshirt earlier. Watching the two siblings help each other, Stanford felt a fond smile form on his face (and a small coil of envy form in his gut, but he ignored that). A smile that dropped off a second later when he got a look at Dipper’s hip.

“What happened?” Stanford asked, reaching out instinctively, but when Dipper flinched, Stanford apologetically pulled his hand back. It was a spectacular bruise – about the size of a baseball and a deep purple-brown in the center with the edges starting to fade to yellow-green – and it would hardly be surprising if it was sensitive to the touch.

“It’s nothing; I’m fine,” Dipper said, looking at the floor. Stanford frowned at him for a moment, but then let it go. Goodness knew he and Stanley had gotten enough mysterious scrapes, bumps, and bruises when they had been Dipper’s age, especially Stanley. And if Dipper’s reticence on the matter was because whatever mischief he had gotten into wasn’t allowed, then the bruise itself should serve as punishment enough for breaking the rules.

Stanford turned to Mabel to offer her help with her sweater. When he exposed the bruise on her stomach he was able to dismiss that as well, assuming it had resulted from the same misadventure as Dipper’s had. What was less easy to write off was when Stanford saw the bare skin of her arms for the first time, and the deep bruises that encircled her wrists and forearms, like someone had... “What happened?” Stanford repeated. “How did you get these bruises?”

“Dipper already said, it’s nothing,” Mabel replied, reaching out to grasp her brother’s hand, both of them holding on to the other tightly.

“Nothing? These aren’t the kind of bruises you get roughhousing with each other. They look like…” Stanford stopped, unable to voice the thought out loud, some irrational part of his brain believing that as long as he didn’t say it, it couldn’t be true. “Did your mother-”

“No!” Mabel insisted, her hair flying wildly with the force of her head shake. “Mama never hit us or hurt us. She’s a good mama, right Dipper?”

“She never hit us,” Dipper agreed.

Stanford felt his stomach drop out. He hadn’t said anything about anyone hitting them; Mabel had produced that on her own. That wasn’t the kind of thing a child should be able to come up with, and Stanford didn’t think most children would either, not unless… The way the two of them clung together, the way Dipper would barely speak to Stanford unless spoken to first, the circle of bruises on Mabel’s arms that looked like a large hand had grabbed them together and squeezed.

It was a bit strange, the way Stanford was feeling. The anger and disgust he would have expected, because whoever had done this was obviously he worst sort of person; _anyone_ who would hurt a child deserved every bit of anger and disgust that came their way. But these weren’t just any children who had been hurt: this was sweet and cheerful Mabel with her infectious crooked-toothed grin, and this was Dipper, who was so anxious, but so curious and so very bright. These were _Stanford’s children_ and it didn’t matter that he had known them less than a day, Stanford wanted to go out there and hunt down the person who had done this – he prayed it was just one person and just one time – and make them pay. And at the same time he felt a warring yet complementary desire to gather Dipper and Mabel in his arms and never let them go.

Above all the emotions and the noise, one thought arose, crystal sharp. _This could not be allowed to happen again._

Stanford knelt down so he was at the children’s level. “Dipper, Mabel, can you look at me for a minute?” Stanford waited, and after a second they both looked up from the floor and met his eyes. “I won’t make you tell me what happened if you don’t want to” – right now he didn’t know if he’d ever be able to make them do anything they didn’t want to ever again – “but I want you to know that no one is ever going to hurt you like this again. I’ll make certain of it.” The children didn’t look like they believed him, but that wasn’t surprising. It was okay, they’d come to believe it in time.

Stanford reached behind him and turned the faucet off. He gave the children what he hoped was a reassuring smile and said, “Now, how about that bath?”

It wasn’t that late when they’d finished with the bath, but Stanford was feeling completely drained and the kids hadn’t had a nap today – did five year olds still take naps? – so Stanford decided it was late enough to put them to bed. The two of them didn’t have any pajamas in their backpacks – in fact there was frighteningly little in their bags, but Stanford didn’t have it in him to ask whether that was because their mother hadn’t bothered to pack more or because there wasn’t more to pack, not tonight. Instead he gave them each one of his undershirts to wear to bed, and then a delighted Mabel had made him take off his button-up, so he would match them as well. He took them to the room that had originally been designated as the spare bedroom, Stanford having the vague notion that a house the size of his ought to have a spare bedroom, but had slowly morphed into a storage room that happened to have a bed in it over time. He tucked the children in and, on an impulse, gave them both a kiss on the forehead, which earned him one broad grin and one uncertain but genuine smile.

Earlier he had been intending taking a shower after the children were asleep, since if he was going to be expecting them to bathe on a regular basis, he should probably be setting a good example by doing it himself, but he didn’t have the energy for it anymore. In the morning maybe. Instead he found himself heading back into the kitchen and opening the top cabinet where he kept his small collection of liquor. He didn’t drink often and not much when he did, but if there were ever a night to indulge, this seemed like it.

It was much later, late enough that he was able to use that to convince his slightly inebriated self not to call Fiddleford and tell him that this whole thing was his fault, when he heard the patter of small feet. He turned to look and saw Dipper and Mabel standing in the doorway. “Did you need something?”

Mabel’s nose crinkled in distaste briefly, but her expression smoothed into her normal smile a moment later. “It’s okay, Daddy. Dipper had a bad dream, but I can take care of him. We won’t be a new-sense while you’re drinking your smelly grown-up drink. Night, Daddy; we love you.” She poked Dipper in the side, and he obligingly told Stanford he loved him as well, and then the two of them headed back up to their room.

It would have been better, maybe easier, maybe not, but certainly better, if they had sounded upset or betrayed. But Mabel’s reaction suggested that they thought it was completely normal to seek out their parent in the middle of the night only to find that parent too drunk to take care of the two of them. Not that Stanford was that drunk, but Mabel had certainly seemed to think he was. (It occurred to Stanford briefly to wonder what kind of “medicine” their mother had been taking exactly.)

Stanford cradled his head in his hands and sighed. If he was going to keep the children – and he was keeping the children, wasn’t he? He couldn’t send them back to their mother now, not after what he had found out and not after he’d sworn he’d protect them from now on. More than that, Stanford had enjoyed having them around today, and he thought maybe he actually wanted to keep them around for his own sake as well as theirs. So, since he was keeping the children, he would have to do better. Somehow.

 

* * *

 

When Dipper and Mabel woke up, they went to look in Daddy’s room for him, because Mama always slept late after she stayed up drinking alc’hol, but he wasn’t there.

“Maybe he’s in the kitchen making us pancakes,” Mabel said. Dipper didn’t think he was, because Daddy said yesterday he didn’t have pancakes, but maybe he was in the kitchen making them other breakfast. And Mabel agreed that the omelets had been yummy, so they went to check.

When they got close to the kitchen, Dipper’s nose wrinkled because of the smelly alc’hol and he felt a sad feeling in his tummy. Because sometimes Mama stayed up so late drinking alc’hol it was already morning again, and sometimes she didn’t stay up late, but started drinking right in the morning anyway, and those were always Bad Days. But when they got to the kitchen, Daddy wasn’t drinking the alc’hol at all. He was pouring it down the sink.

“Daddy, what’re you doing?” Mabel asked.

“Getting rid of this,” Daddy answered.

“But isn’t it ‘spensive?” Mabel said.

“This bottle was,” Daddy said. He shook the bottle a few times to make sure it was really empty, and then he put it on the counter and grabbed another one. “It was also a gift, though I’m not sure if that makes it better or worse.”

“But _why_?” Dipper asked.

Daddy put the bottle down and turned all the way around to look at them. “Because one of you might have another nightmare tonight.”

Mama had always made lots and lots of promises and “not again,” like Daddy had said last night, was her favorite promise. So Dipper and Mabel knew “I promise” meant that it was a lie. But Daddy hadn’t promised “not again,” he’d just said it. And Mama only ever got rid of her alc’hol sometimes when she was mad and the sound of the bottle breaking on the wall or the floor made her not as mad. She never ever got rid of it just for Dipper and Mabel. And Mama hadn’t promised that Daddy would be better than her either, she’d just said it. So maybe it was true.

Dipper let go of Mabel’s hand and ran across the room and grabbed Daddy around the legs and held him tight. Then Mabel came and hugged him too, and then Daddy knelt down and hugged them back and he didn’t smell like alc’hol or medicine or nothing, just like soap and Daddy-smell.

Maybe it was true.


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everybody, I’ve got a couple of things I want to clarify for those of you who haven’t read Journal 3, or who gulped it down all at once and are a little fuzzy on the details now. First off, “Manly” Dan apparently went by “Boyish” Dan when he was younger, so don’t be confused if you see that. 
> 
> Secondly, and more importantly. Bill Cipher *cannot* possess Stanford currently, nor has he given him the idea for the portal yet. By the canon timeline it’s still almost a month before Bill tells Ford about the portal, and another five and a half months after that, approximately, before Ford makes the deal allowing Bill to take over his body while he’s sleeping. Obviously the appearance of the tiny twins is going to have an impact on that timeline, but just so you guys have an understanding of where Ford’s at now.

Fairly quickly Stanford ran into a problem with his plans to go into town that morning and get groceries and the various other supplies he would need if he was going to raise two children. Namely, he didn’t have a car. Steve the tree giant had eaten his old cars years ago, back when Stanford had first arrived in Gravity Falls, and he had never bothered to replace it. He spent the vast majority of his time working either in his house or out in the wilderness in Gravity Falls, neither of which required the use of a car. Admittedly, it might have been more expedient on occasion to be able to drive out to somewhere nearer to wherever he was attempting to study rather than hiking all the way from his cabin, but Stanford found he enjoyed the hiking. Most of the supplies he needed for his work weren’t the kind of thing one could buy in a small town in the middle of rural Oregon and had to be shipped in regardless, so he didn’t need a car for that either. Really, the only time it had been inconvenient in the past was when he had to walk all the way into town to the grocery store and then hike back with his groceries carried in his camping backpack and his two tote bags, but he only did that about once a month, which was only twelve times in the course of entire year, which didn’t sound like hardly anything at all when you put it like that. But walking to town with two five year olds in tow didn’t seem like a feasible option, and Dipper and Mabel certainly weren’t old enough to stay at home by themselves. Especially not before Stanford had had a chance to go through the house and make it child safe. No, obviously Stanford was going to need to buy a car.

Whoever had said it was right, children were expensive.

That still left the problem of _how_ Stanford was going to buy a car. Money wasn’t the issue – he had a good bit saved up, though he suspected that wouldn’t be the case for much longer – so much as how he was going to get to somewhere where he could purchase one. He was fairly certain that there was a used car lot in town, but how was he supposed to get there to buy a car when he didn’t have a car with which to drive there in the first place? Quite the conundrum. Finally he decided they could walk over to “Boyish” Dan Corduroy’s place and see if he might be willing to give them a ride into town.

After breakfast, Stanford helped the children get dressed – Mabel insisted on wearing her over-sized sweater again, which Stanford was a little worried would be too hot, but he couldn’t deny he was grateful to be able to avoid the possibility of having to explain the bruises on her arms to anyone. Then they set off, Stanford taking one of Dipper’s hands and then being pleasantly surprised when rather than taking her brother’s hand Mabel came around to grab the other of Stanford’s.

“Daddy?” Mabel asked after they had been walking for about a minute or so. “Have you ever met any unicorns out here?”

“Yes,” Stanford said, grimacing a bit at the memory.

Mabel squealed. That’s right, little girls liked unicorns, didn’t they? And Mabel had been fairly excited by his entry on the leprecorn. “Can you take me to meet one too?”

That struck Stanford as being a terrible idea. He didn’t believe there was any way the unicorn could look into Mabel’s or Dipper’s hearts and tell them they were impure, but what if she did; how would the children react to that? Or what if she told them that _Stanford’s_ heart was impure? He might be resigned to the fact that he was not as good as a person as he might wish he could be, but children, even his children who were terribly bright, tended to have fairly simplistic worldviews when it came to good vs. bad. No, best avoid the unicorns. “I’m afraid the, uh… portal to the unicorns’ enchanted glade only opens once every hundred years.”

“And I missed it?” Mabel cried.

“I’m sorry,” Stanford told her, squeezing her hand. And he was sorry for having to lie to her, but it was for the best.

“That’s okay, I’ll just live for a hundred more years and see them the next time,” Mabel decreed. “Daddy, can you tell me what the unicorns are like?”

“Why don’t you tell me what you like best about unicorns?” Stanford suggested instead. Mabel took to that topic like a fish to water, relating all sorts of different things about unicorns, most of which Stanford was fairly certain she had made up. Then she said something about unicorns with wings, but before Stanford could say anything Dipper corrected her, telling her that a winged horse was called a pegasus. Then the two of them began a back and forth discussion of what they imagined all kinds of different fairy tale and mythological creatures were like. By chance they ended up sticking mostly to beings that Stanford had yet to encounter in Gravity Falls, so he mostly just listened to the two of them, occasionally making a comment to show that he was paying attention.

They had been walking for about a half an hour, maybe forty-five minutes – the distance to Boyish Dan’s cabin wasn’t that far, but it wasn’t short either, and the children, being children, had fairly short strides which slowed their pace considerably compared to what Stanford might have managed on his own – when Stanford noticed that Dipper was walking a bit oddly. “Dipper, is something wrong?” he asked.

“My feet hurt,” Dipper admitted.

“Well, let’s take a look at them,” Stanford said, stopping. He knelt down and pulled one of Dipper’s shoes off, noting at he did so that they were very ill-fitting, and discovered that Dipper’s foot was covered in blisters, as was the other one when he checked it. “Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

“I didn’t want to bother you,” Dipper said.

“It bothers me more to think you might be hurting and not telling me about it,” Stanford replied.

Dipper looked at the ground. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

“I’m not mad,” Stanford said, feeling guilty. And he wasn’t, not at Dipper at least. “I just… How am I supposed to help you if you don’t tell me when something’s wrong?”

Dipper gave a one-shoulder shrug and Stanford sighed. “I’m not mad,” he repeated, then he turned to Mabel. “How are your feet feeling?”

“They’re fine,” she said, and it sounded genuine. Stanford gave her feet a quick check anyway, and while her shoes weren’t in much better shape than Dipper’s ratty ones, they did seem to fit decently well and her feet looked just as fine as she claimed them to be.

Stanford added new shoes to his mental list of things that he needed to get for the children, his very long list, then returned his attention to Dipper. “Alright, come over here,” Stanford said, holding his arms open. It felt a little awkward crouching there like that, but as last night had made painfully clear, he didn’t know what had happened to the children in the past years, and Stanford didn’t want to accidentally cross over any boundaries.

“What for?” Dipper asked, though he didn’t sound wary, just curious. Stanford mentally tallied that as good thing, and then hated that he felt he had to.

“You can’t walk with your feet like that, so I’m going to carry you.” Dipper launched himself at Stanford and clung on with a strength that seemed far greater than any child that small had any right to have. It was the second time that day Dipper had all but thrown himself into a hug with Stanford, so Stanford must have been doing something right. He hugged him back briefly, then shifted his grip so he could lift Dipper with him as he stood up.

After he got Dipper settled comfortably on his hip, Stanford looked back down at Mabel and felt guilty all over again. Was it unfair to Mabel that he was carrying Dipper and not her? It was fair, wasn’t it, because Dipper was hurt and Mabel wasn’t. Stanford could even argue that it was equal since if Mabel’s feet had been hurt, then Stanford would have carried her too. But what if all Mabel saw was her brother getting special treatment when she wasn’t? On the other hand, it wouldn’t be fair to Dipper if Stanford offered to carry his sister now, would it? Because Dipper was getting this special treatment because he was hurt, and if Stanford extended the same offer to Mabel when she wasn’t hurt, then that would be like treating the two of them as a single unit, rather than two separate individuals. But where exactly was the line between treating the two of them equally and treating them exactly the same?

Stanford felt a sudden and acute sense of sympathy for his parents.

Mabel, unaware of Stanford’s inner turmoil and guilt, grabbed a handful of his shirt and then continued walking, picking up her earlier thread of conversation about talking rabbits, the types of which were apparently many and varied. Stanford rearranged his hold on Dipper so he could offer her one of his hands to hold rather than his shirt, and Mabel took it and seemed perfectly pleased with that. Well. Alright then.

It was another ten minutes of walking before they reached Boyish Dan’s house. Stanford hoped he was home and that they hadn’t walked all this way for nothing. It was too bad Stanford didn’t have Boyish Dan’s phone number, so he could have called ahead to be sure. In fact, if he was going to be asking for a favor anyway, he could have asked Boyish Dan to come pick them up at Stanford’s cabin and saved themselves a lot of walking. He’d just never thought to ask for the number before, because he had never needed it before. Maybe Stanford should see about trying to find a phonebook while he was in town. He added that to his mental list.

Stanford rapped on Boyish Dan’s front door and was grateful when it opened a few moments later. “Hello,” he said. He let go of Mabel’s hand briefly to resettle Dipper on his hip, before reaching out and taking it again.

“Hey there, neighbor,” Boyish Dan said, regarding the children with no small amount of surprise. “I didn’t know you had kids.”

 _Neither did I_. “Their mother just dropped them off to live with me yesterday,” Stanford said, leaving Boyish Dan to draw what conclusions he may. “We were actually hoping you might be willing to do us a favor and drive us to the car lot in town.”

Boyish Dan looked at the children again, then nodded. “Suppose I can. Let me go get my keys.” He disappeared inside the house and returned a moment later, car keys in hand. “So what’re your names?” he asked the children as he led all of them to the car.

“I’m Mabel and that’s my brother Dipper. He hurt his feet coming over, so Daddy had to carry him the rest of the way.”

“Mason,” Dipper said quietly.

“What was that?” Stanford asked.

“My name is Mason. I only want you and Mabel to call me Dipper,” he said, loud enough this time that Boyish Dan heard it as well, and he regarded Stanford with a quizzical expression.

“My son’s birth name is Mason,” Stanford clarified. “Dipper is just his nickname. A family nickname, it seems.”

“Ah. Well, with a nickname like that, you’ll fit right in here in Gravity Falls. Folks around here love a good nickname. My parents sure didn’t name me Boyish Dan,” he said in a jovial tone to Dipper, but Dipper was having none of it, and actually burrowed closer to Stanford.

“He’s shy,” Stanford explained. He thought it was probably even true.

After that the conversation was put on hold so they could all load up in the car. Stanford wasn’t particularly surprised by the fact that Dipper and Mabel chose to sit side-by-side, rather than spreading out to avoid the middle seat, despite Stanford having vague memories of arguing with Stanley over who would have to sit in the middle and who got to sit in the side seat back when they were much younger. Shermie, being the oldest, had the spot behind Ma in the passenger seat on permanent reserve.

It wasn’t until they were all in the car and out on the road proper that they started their conversation again. “So, finally got tired of walking everywhere?” Boyish Dan asked.

“I still think that walking wherever you need to go is a great way to get exercise,” Stanford disagreed, then he admitted, “But with the children here now it seemed prudent to have another option.”

“Plus we already walked really far today,” Mabel added. “All the way from our house to your house.”

“Ha, that’s nothing,” Boyish Dan said. “You should come visit me sometime and I’ll show you how to go on a walk _like a man_.”

Stanford watched in the rear view mirror as Mabel’s nose scrunched up in confusion. “But I’m a girl.”

“Doesn’t matter; boy, girl, anyone can be manly if they want it bad enough, and they’ve got a manly enough teacher,” Boyish Dan told her.

This apparently made sense to Mabel, because she nodded thoughtfully and asked, “What other stuff can you teach me how to do manly?”

“Everything,” Boyish Dan assured her, and then he proceeded to list off examples. Many of them were what Stanford would have expected – climbing trees and chopping them down, fishing, hunting, building things, fixing things – and others weren’t things Stanford would have thought of himself, but he supposed they made a certain degree of sense – he usually would consider cooking as being stereotypically woman’s work, if he had to assign a gender to it at all, but on further thought there were some protein-rich dishes that could be considered masculine – but some of them… Well, Stanford wasn’t aware that darning socks was something that people even did anymore, much less something that could be done in a manly way.

Mabel occasionally made comments or asked questions about the many, many things Boyish Dan claimed to be able to do in a manly way – everything, it seemed, was not an exaggeration – but Dipper remained quiet until they had almost reached their destination.

“Can you teach me how to protect Mabel from bad people?”

The silence that followed that request echoed in Stanford’s head, though the children didn’t seem to notice. Just as Stanford was opening his mouth to say something, anything, Boyish Dan spoke again, his tone exactly the same as it had been. “Sure can. Protecting your family is the manliest thing anyone can do.”

“ _Dipper_ ,” Stanford said, turning back in his seat so he could look at Dipper. He started to reach out, but then he hesitated. Finally, he held his hand out near his son, so Dipper could take it or ignore it as he chose. “I meant what I said last night. I’m going to be looking after you and Mabel from now on.”

Dipper licked his lips and nodded, the motion jerky. “I know… Could I maybe learn how to do it anyway?”

“Of course.” Stanford would be willing to do a lot worse than getting Dipper self-defense lessons if it made the kids feel better or safer. He briefly toyed with the idea of trying to teach Dipper some boxing moves before discarding it; he’d never been that good at it anyway, and by this point he’d probably forgotten most of what he had known.

Mabel reached out and grabbed Stanford’s hand and one of Dipper’s in each of her own, and then brought them all together. “And I wanna learn how to protect Dipper and Daddy and then we can all protect each other,” she said. She then gave a firm nod, as though declaring the matter closed.

“We’re here,” Boyish Dan said, pulling the car into park. Stanford thanked him for the ride and got out of the car, only to be surprised when Boyish Dan got out too. “You know, I’m planning on having kids one of these days myself. Six of ‘em: three boys and three girls.”

“That sounds…” – terrifying – “ambitious,” Stanford replied. He barely knew what to do with the two children he had now; what on Earth was someone supposed to do with six?

“I like kids,” Boyish Dan said with a shrug. He tapped his finger against the roof of the car once, twice. “Those two kids of yours. They seem like maybe they’ve been through some stuff.” He looked at Stanford meaningfully.

“Their mother wasn’t… I’m taking care of them now,” Stanford said firmly. He didn’t see how it was any business of Boyish Dan’s anyway.

“Good,” Boyish Dan said with a fierceness to it that briefly threw Stanford off-balance. “You let me know when those kids are ready for their lessons in how to be a man.”

“Ah, yes. Thank you, again,” Stanford said.

He opened the rear door to the car and Dipper and Mabel, both sitting patiently with their seat belts off, turned to look at him. “Can we get out of the car now?” Dipper asked.

“Yes, you can,” Stanford said, and this time when he offered his open arms to Dipper the boy crawled into them to be carried without a question.

“Good,” Mabel said. She slid out of the car and held one hand up to Stanford expectantly. Smiling a little, he took it. “I don’t like staying in the car for really long because in the summer it gets too hot and I have to pant to stay cool, like this,” – she demonstrated – “And in the winter it gets too cold, so me and Dipper have to hug to keep warm.”

Stanford’s hand tightened around hers unconsciously. “Then we’ll have to make sure we get a car with good air conditioning and heating.”

In the end, Pa probably would have been disappointed in the job Stanford did of haggling with the used car salesman, but Stanford walked away with a decent car at a reasonably affordable price – he would have considered it very affordable if not for all the other expenses that he was sure would be cropping up soon – in just under an hour and a half, so he was satisfied. And now he had a way to transport Dipper and Mabel around without having to make them walk everywhere, not to mention how convenient it would be for grocery shopping, especially now that he was going to probably have to buy something on the order of twice as much. And now he’d be able to carry all the children’s clothing he’d have to get home, and the shoes, and the books, and the toys, and the furniture, and… Maybe he should have gotten a bigger car. Ah well, it was done now; they would make do.

Ideally, the first thing Stanford wanted to get was new shoes for Dipper. Mostly for Dipper’s sake, but also because Stanford didn’t particularly relish the idea of carrying him around all day. But that was when Stanford ran into another problem: he didn’t know where nearby he could go to buy children’s shoes. In fact, he wasn’t sure where to purchase almost all of the things on his list for Dipper and Mabel. He had a vague idea there might be a shopping mall in town somewhere, but he hadn’tthe foggiest where exactly, and it honestly could have been in the next town over just as easily.

After some mental debate, Stanford decided to go to the convenience store nearby, Dusk 2 Dawn or something like that. He seemed to remember that it was locally owned by an older couple, which might make it a good place to get information as to where he could buy the things on his list. Plus, it would probably be a good idea to get some snacks to have on hand for Dipper and Mabel if they were going to be out shopping all day.

When they arrived at the convenience store the place was relatively empty, probably because most people were too lazy to be up and about at 11am on a Saturday. Stanford never understood how some people could laze about like that, but at the moment it suited his purposes just fine anyway.

Another thing to be appreciative of was right inside the front doors there were two bins of cheap sandals, one in adult sizes and one in children’s. “Perfect,” Stanford said, setting Dipper down. “Let’s see if we can find you something to hold you over until we can get you a real pair of shoes.”

Stanford dug through the bin, but even the smallest pair looked like they were a bit large for Dipper. Still, they were probably better than what he had on right now. So he helped Dipper out of his current shoes, wincing again at the blisters – maybe he should look around for bandages too while he was here. Then he slipped the sandals on Dipper’s feet, paying close attention to where the straps lay. They did come close to one of Dipper’s blisters, he noted, but none of the straps were actually overlapping any of them. “How’s that?”

“It’s a lot better. I can walk by myself now,” Dipper said. “Thank you Daddy.”

A totally responsible parent would probably insist on carrying their child anyway, until they had had a chance to rest and let their feet heal. On the other hand, Stanford’s arm was starting to get sore, and if he didn’t know it was impossible, he would swear that Dipper had gotten heavier since this morning. So he just smiled and said, “You’re welcome.”

The rest of the shopping went fairly quickly. In short order Stanford was standing at the front counter, with Dipper and Mabel hanging on to either pant leg, and being rung up by an older woman who he thought was one of the co-owners and who couldn’t possibly actually be named Ma. “That’ll be $7.16 there, stranger.”

Stanford handed her his money and was trying to figure out how to broach the subject of ‘I’ve just had my two children who I previously didn’t know existed abandoned at my doorstep yesterday and I need help knowing where to go to stock up on all the things I need’ when the other woman who had been browsing near the front counter spoke up. “Hey that’s no stranger. That must be that mysterious science guy who lives out in the woods. I didn’t know you had kids, mysterious science guy!”

First Boyish Dan, then the salesman at the used car lot, and now this woman; was Stanford going to have to have this conversation with everyone he ran into while he was out today? Boyish Dan he could understand because the other man was the closest thing Stanford had to a next-door neighbor and had built Stanford’s cabin besides. It made sense that Boyish Dan would expect to be at least peripherally aware of it if Stanford had children. But Stanford didn’t know that he’d ever seen this woman before in his life. Why on Earth should she be surprised to learn that she didn’t know that a person she’d never met had children?

“Well I do,” Stanford said simply, hoping to move past the topic.

“You didn’t know ‘cuz our mama only left us to live with Daddy yesterday,” his daughter said, probably trying to be helpful. “Hi, I’m Mabel.”

“Well, hello there,” the woman said. “My name’s Susan, and this is Ma and Pa Duskerton.” Susan gestured first to the woman who had been ringing Stanford up, then to the older man who had come over to join them after hearing Susan going on – unnecessarily loudly, Stanford might add – about the “mysterious science guy.” “And what’s your name, little guy?”

“Mason,” Dipper said.

“He’s my twin and this is our daddy,” Mabel added.

“I can see that,” Susan replied, amused.

She looked at Stanford expectantly, and, guessing at what she wanted, he said, “Stanford Pines.”

“Did I hear you say you were divorced there, Stan?” Pa Duskerton asked, faint disapproving looks on both his and Ma Duskerton’s faces. Right, older couple, small town.

“Actually, I prefer Stanford, or just Ford. And yes, something like that,” he prevaricated. He still wanted these people to help him, and while he certainly didn’t owe them any sort of explanation, he had a feeling that if he didn’t offer one, then they would be less than forth-coming with him as well. And telling them the whole account exactly as it happened was out, because it really wasn’t any of their business and because they’d likely find it even less acceptable than the idea of him being divorced. “I was young when I met their mother and we ended up not being particularly suited to each other. We were… separated by the time she found out she was pregnant, and she took the children after they were born. It’s only been just recently that she’s acknowledged that I’m the better person to be the children’s caretaker, so this has been our first chance to spend time together.”

“Oh, you poor dear,” Ma Duskerton said, pressing her hand to her chest, and Susan was… was she crying? Even Pa Duskerton didn’t look entirely dry-eyed. Stanford really hadn’t been expecting that strong of a reaction. It worked in his favor, at least.

“Don’t cry, Miss Susan,” Mabel said. “’Cuz you have really pretty earrings.”

Susan touched her cat head earring studs lightly and smiled. “Aren’t you a little sweetheart? What on Earth did your Daddy do without you?”

Mabel, too young to realize that it was a rhetorical question, answered enthusiastically, “He’s been doing all kinds of science-y and adventure-y stuff. He showed me ‘n’ Dipper yesterday and it was really cool, right Dipper?”

Dipper nodded. “Our daddy is really smart.”

“I’ll bet he is,” Susan said, reaching over to ruffle Mabel’s hair.

Mabel _shrieked_. She pulled away from Susan and buried her face in Stanford’s shirt, while Dipper glared at the woman.

“Mabel? What’s wrong?” Stanford asked, crouching down. As soon as he was within reach, Mabel latched her arms around Stanford’s neck and wouldn’t let go for anything, so he had no choice but to pick her up. When he returned to a standing position, having still not gotten any sort of answer from Mabel, Stanford noticed the other three adults regarding the two of them with expressions of mixed concern, confusion, and curiosity. “They’re shy about being touched by strangers,” Stanford offered. Again, he thought it was probably true.

“I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to scare you,” Susan said, directing her comment at Mabel, who currently had her face hidden in the crook of Stanford’s neck. “Say, do you like pancakes?”

When Mabel looked unlikely to respond, Stanford answered for her. “She loves pancakes.”

“Well I work over at Greasy’s Diner just around the corner. How about you and your brother come over sometime and I’ll get you each a big stack of pancakes, on the house. Would you like that?”

“Yes, thank you,” Mabel said quietly, talking more to Stanford’s neck than anything. “Daddy, can we go home now?”

“We still have to go shopping today, remember?” Stanford said. He turned to Ma and Pa Duskerton. “Actually, I was hoping you could help us out a little with that. My, uh, ex’s decision to have me take the kids in was a little sudden and I didn’t have time to prepare really. I was wondering if you could tell me what places in town were best to buy children’s clothes and toys and books and that kind of thing.”

“Daddy, _please_ ,” Mabel said.

Stanford faltered. He really did need to get the things for the children, but on the other hand, was it worth it to get things for them if it was at the expense of their comfort? “I suppose most of it could wait until tomorrow. But we do have to go to the grocery store if you want to have anything to eat tonight.”

“Can we get one of the carts with a car in the front of it for me ‘n’ Dipper to ride in?” she asked.

“Yes, if they have one,” Stanford said, grateful that she seemed to be warming up to the idea.

“And can we get hot chocolate with gummy bears in it?”

“I don’t think they sell hot chocolate with gummy bears,” Stanford said. He looked up at the other adults to see if they had any insight to offer, but all he got was a couple of shrugs. “We could get hot chocolate _and_ gummy bears.”

“And can we get a treat for Dipper too?”

“Yes, Dipper can pick out something for himself.”

“And a treat for Daddy too?” Someone, Stanford wasn’t sure who, cooed at that.

“We can all get a treat,” Stanford assured her.

“And a pony too?” That garnered a few chuckles.

“They don’t sell ponies at the grocery store,” Stanford told her. “Besides we can’t really afford to buy a pony.”

“But we can get all the rest of it? Really, really, really?” Mabel asked.

“Really,” Stanford said.

“Okay,” Mabel said. “I love you, Daddy.”

It should have seemed a little weird, saying something like this for the first time in front of three total strangers, but the words came out without a thought, “I love you too.” He reached down a squeezed Dipper’s shoulder. “Both of you.”

When he looked up, Ma and Pa Duskerton and Susan were all looking at him and Dipper and Mabel with huge smiles on their faces. “You best get to the store so you can get those little ones home,” Pa Duskerton said. “And don’t worry about needing to know where to pick up things for them. You come in tomorrow morning and we’ll have a list ready for you.”

“I’ll call ahead and let them know you’re coming. I’ll make sure they give you good deals, so you can save up for that pony,” Ma Duskerton added with a wink.

“And come over to the diner for those pancakes whenever. I’ll make sure they keep an eye out for you even if I’m not there,” Susan said.

“Thank you,” Stanford said, feeling a bit bowled over. “I… thank you.” He offered Dipper his hand and Dipper gripped it with both of his. “Let’s go kids.”

They walked out, and as the door closed behind him, Stanford could swear he heard Susan say, “Well wasn’t that just the most adorable thing ever?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus begins the legend of Stanford Pines, “that poor man. Did you know his wife walked out on him and took his kids? She was an awful woman by all accounts. That’s why he locked himself up in that cabin of his, doing spooky science stuff all hours of the day and night: he was trying to distract himself from his heartbreak. But he’s got his kids back now, a pair of twins, and he just dotes on ‘em. Can’t blame him though, those kids are the cutest things you ever did see.” I guess there’s some folk songs about him now?


	4. Chapter Four

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Stanford was having a miniature and well-contained meltdown.

He flopped down on his bed, still fully dressed save for his shoes, and stared up at the ceiling, feeling mentally, physically, and emotionally exhausted. It had been a little over a week since Dipper and Mabel had first shown up unannounced at his doorstep, and Stanford was starting to run out of things to do to get the house suitable for children inhabitants. Except, that is, for all the experiments he had thrown into a pile down in the lower basement – when he convinced himself to make the basement so large because he’d be wanting the space eventually, this really wasn’t what he’d had in mind – that he was going to have to sort through and decide what needed to stay down in the lab or the study, away from curious hands, what could be safely brought back up to the storage room in the main house, and what he should really just get rid of.

Of course, the question remained when he was going to be able to find time to do that when he had two children to look after. In all honesty, he probably could give them a few toys and tell them he’d be down in the basement working for a few hours and to come get him if there was an emergency, and they would manage just fine; his kids were remarkably self-sufficient. But that, when taken in conjunction with the other brief glimpses Stanford had gotten into their past, worried him. And they always seemed so pleased and delighted when he opted to join them in whatever they were doing, and Stanford found himself enjoying it too. Dipper and Mabel were so bright and charming and Stanford loved them what seemed an almost unreasonable amount given how short a time he’d known them, and they apparently loved him back just as much – “those kids adore you,” the clerk at the children’s clothing shop had cooed.

But the thing was, Stanford also loved his work. And, aside from some snatched moments with his journal here and there while the children were coloring or watching one of the tapes he had got for them on the small TV he’d bought, Stanford hadn’t had any time to do any work at all. And while he might be due for a bit of a vacation, since he hadn’t had one since, well… had he ever actually taken a vacation since moving to Gravity Falls? He’d gone back home for Thanksgiving a couple of times, hadn’t he? At very least once. So yes, he was certainly due some time off, but he did have to go back to work eventually, even if he wanted to just goof off forever, which he didn’t. He just also didn’t want Dipper or Mabel to ever feel like they were being neglected or ignored ever again.

Stanford was so caught up in his troubled thoughts, he didn’t even notice when his eyes slipped closed.

_When they opened again it was to the familiar sight of the never-ending cosmos, with books and manuscripts floating in the air, and a chessboard and a tea service for two set and waiting. Of course Bill, not having a mouth, never actually had anything to eat or drink, but Stanford had mentioned offhandedly and jokingly once that tea for one looked a little lonely, and ever since then, it was always set for two. It was little things like that that proved to Stanford that Bill really did care about him._

_“Hey there, genius. Long time no see,” Bill said, floating into view._

_“It really has been a while,” Stanford agreed, though without a hint of accusation. He knew that being a muse must mean that Bill had any number of pressing duties on his time, and Stanford just counted himself lucky and privileged that Bill felt that some of his time was worth spending on Stanford. “And it probably seems longer to me than it’s really been, after the week I’ve had.”_

_“You mean after that pair of kidlets got dropped in your lap? I’ll bet that was a bit of a shocker,” Bill said good-naturedly as he reached out and made the first chess move. Bill always played white because, as he had said to Stanford previously, while somehow giving off the impression of a smile and a wink, despite having no mouth and only one eye, “I’ve got to make it challenging for you somehow, smart guy.”_

_“Was it?” Stanford asked, his voice small and uncertain. “A shock to you that I have children?”_

_“Stanford. You don’t really think I’d keep something like this from you, do you?” Bill asked, sounding wounded, and instantly Stanford was wracked with guilt._

_“Of course not,” Stanford rushed to assure him. “You’re my friend, my muse, and I know you’re looking out for my best interests. I just…”_

_“Hey, I get it. You’re a human; you guys can’t help but being a big ball of insecurities sometimes,” Bill said. “But you’ve got to remember, just because I’ve got an all-seeing eye, it doesn’t mean I always know where I need to look. That’s what I have you for.”_

_Stanford flushed a little at the praise. “I thought you were supposed to be the one inspiring me.”_

_“That’s my job,” Bill agreed. “I guess you must just do it naturally, Sixer.”_

_Stanford ducked his head and reached out to make his next move, hoping to hide the heat in his cheeks. By the time he’d looked up from the chessboard, the pride suffusing him at Bill’s words had retreated somewhat and Stanford had returned to a more somber mood. “Now that you do know where to look, Dipper and Mabel’s mother…” he began, then trailed off as he tried to think of a way to articulate what he wanted to ask._

_“Steph? She’s a piece of work, let me tell you,” Bill said._

_“I’d surmised as much. I want to help my children as best as I can, and I think I’d be able to do a better job if I knew what exactly they’d been through. But at the same time, I don’t want to force them to tell me if they aren’t ready. So I was hoping perhaps you could tell me?” Stanford said. He hated asking Bill for anything when Bill was already giving him so much in being his muse, but this was important._

_“You don’t ask for small favors, do you?” Bill said._

_“Sorry, I…”_

_“You didn’t know. The present is easy to see, but the future and past, it’s only the big events that are clear. That’s how I knew that you were going to be the man who changes the world before we even met. But knowing what exactly happened to those kids of yours in the past?” Bill held his hand up to his face, making a gesture that mimicked a human rubbing their chin thoughtfully. “Maybe if I hopped inside their heads to use their memories as a focus-“_

_“No!” Stanford said, his vehemence surprising even him._

_“Hey, don’t go biting my head off. I’m just trying to help, like_ you _asked me to,” Bill said._

_Stanford winced. He knew he was being unreasonable; Stanford had asked for a favor and Bill was being incredibly gracious to try and fulfill it, and all Stanford could do was be ungrateful about the way Bill was going about it. How to explain the uncomfortable feeling that coiled in his gut at the suggestion, a little like jealousy, but who and what Stanford was jealous of he didn’t know, and just generally inherently wrong. “I know. But I… I may not know exactly what Dipper and Mabel have been through, but I know that it was bad. Having you in my mind is a very intimate experience, and while I always welcome your presence, after what they’ve been through I can’t be sure the children wouldn’t see it as an intrusion. I trust you absolutely, of course, and I know you wouldn’t ever hurt them, but I want to respect their boundaries. I suppose I’ll just have to muddle through this on my own somehow.”_

_“Speaking of the kids, there is a reason I wanted to talk to you,” Bill said._

_“Is there something wrong with them?” Stanford asked, worried. Their bruises had mostly healed, but it suddenly occurred to him that they may have other injuries that Stanford wasn’t aware of; injuries that were far more serious._

_“You could put it that way,” Bill said, and Stanford nearly felt his heart leap out of his chest before Bill continued, “When’s the last time you got any real work done?”_

_“The day before Dipper and Mabel arrived,” Stanford admitted sheepishly, knowing full well what Bill had been trying to get at. “But that’s because I’ve had so much to do to get them settled in. I should have more time now that they are.”_

_“Stanford, Stanford, Stanford. You can lie to yourself, but you can’t lie to me, especially not when I’m in your head. We both know you don’t have any idea how to manage both the kids and your work. And here’s the thing, Fordsy: my calling is to inspire a brilliant mind to greatness, but I can’t inspire your work if you’re spending all your time chasing around a pair of ankle-biters, and even with my help you aren’t ever going to reach greatness in the field of child-rearing,” Bill said._

_“Right, of course,” Ford said. He’d thought he’d been doing a decent job at it so far, but that was mostly from the kid’s reactions, and after what they’d been through, their standards were probably none too high._

_“Hey, don’t feel bad. You’ve got a lot of talents Sixer; raising kids just isn’t one of them. I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.”_

_“You’re right. I appreciate the honesty.” Honesty was much better than mindless flattery and that Bill didn’t sugar-coat it or try to be gentle with Stanford’s feelings was just proof that he respected Stanford._

_“It really should get better going forward. If nothing else, I’ll have the time between when I put the kids to bed and when I have to go to sleep, so that’s a few hours every day. And once fall comes around Dipper and Mabel will have to go to school, and then I’ll have all day to work.”_

_“By then it might be too late,” Bill said ominously._

_“What do you mean, too late?”_

_“Look, I didn’t want to have to tell you this and technically I’m not supposed to tell you this, but… There are a lot of things that go into choosing who I’m going to work with, but the three key traits are intelligence, ambition, and focus. And when we first met, let me tell you, you had as much of those three things as anyone I’ve ever worked with. But ever since those kids of yours showed up, your focus has been down to basically nothing. And I’m not going to stop you from taking a little vacation, I understand that your human frailties mean you can’t go at one hundred percent one hundred percent of the time like I can. But just because this inspiration is being freely gifted, doesn’t mean there aren’t some rules to it. And if you can’t keep bringing your end of it to the table, then I can’t keep sticking around.”_

_“You’re leaving?” Stanford asked, starting to feel short of breath. Bill couldn’t leave; he was Stanford’s muse, his friend, the only friend that he had up in Gravity Falls. How was Stanford supposed to be great without him; how was he supposed to function after being abandoned yet again? He couldn’t…_

_“Whoa there Stanford, breathe. I mean, strictly speaking this is the mindscape so you don’t actually have to breathe, but it might help you keep from having a panic attack,” Bill said. Stanford forced himself to take a few deep breaths – he wasn’t having a panic attack, but Bill was right about needing to calm down – then reached for his tea cup, whose contents he quickly altered from Assam to Chamomile, and took a few sips. “There you go. Now, if it were up to me, I wouldn’t want to leave. It’s going to be another ninety-eight and a half years before I can choose a new candidate, and even though that’s not as long for me as it is for you, I’d prefer not to spend all that time just waiting. But it’s_ not _up to me. If you don’t get yourself focused on your work again, I won’t have any choice but to leave.”_

_“I’ll figure something out,” Stanford promised. Because now it wasn’t just about Stanford wanting to pursue his work for his own enjoyment or even about justifying to the university the money they sent him to conduct his research. Now it was about not letting Bill down._

_“A smart guy like you? I know you will,” Bill said._

_“After all, I’ll hardly be the first person to change the world and have children,” Stanford said, feeling more confident already. Bill thought he could do it and he would; failure wasn’t an option._

_“You’re not wrong,” Bill said. “But on the other hand, you’re not completely right there either.”_

_“What do you mean?”_

_“Those other guys didn’t have_ kids _, they had a_ family _. Specifically, they had someone else who they could foist the duty of caring for the rugrats off on while they did the important stuff. And it’s been great for you not having anyone around to distract you or drag you down or suffocate you with their trivial wants. But the point is you don’t have anyone you can trust to look after the kids for you, which hey, I would definitely volunteer if I didn’t lack a corporeal body in your dimension, and you don’t have the time to raise two kids by yourself if you want to change the world.”_

_“So you think I should find someone to help me,” Stanford said._

_For a moment he could have sworn that Bill turned to a bright angry red shade, but it passed and Bill was back to his normal cheerful yellow so quickly that Stanford assumed he had imagined it. He must be tired, if he was seeing things even in the mindscape. “What I think you should do,” Bill said slowly and evenly, “is think long and hard about what’s best for you, and then do it.” He moved his remaining rook and placed Stanford’s king in check._

_Stanford captured the rook with his queen. “Mate in three,” he said off-handedly. “Thank you for your help, Bill.”_

_“It’s what I’m here for,” Bill responded. He flicked his king over and sent it flying across the mindscape, only for it to appear in his hand again a moment later, being twirled between his fingers. “And remember Sixer, I don’t want to leave you. So don’t make me have to.”_

_Stanford went to assure Bill that he wouldn’t let that happen, but before he could say anything his eyes blinked closed…_

… and opened again to the sight of his bedroom ceiling.

Stanford glanced over at the clock on his bedside table. It was still late in the evening, or perhaps it could be termed early in the night by now, only about twenty minutes after when he’d first laid down. Part of him was tempted to go and get some work done right now, to prove to Bill that he was taking this seriously and could still focus. But instead he got up and went to prepare himself for bed. Nap or no, he was still exhausted, and trying to deal with Dipper and Mabel while severely sleep-deprived did not strike him as one of his better ideas. So for tonight he would rest, and then first thing in the morning he would get started on sorting everything else out. After all, he’d have time enough for work soon.


	5. Chapter Five

Stan looked down at the address in the letter he had received and then looked back up at the cabin. This was definitely it. Nice place, although the weird rustic meets mad scientist vibe wasn’t really Stan’s style. Perfect for Ford though. Stan hoped his brother was home. There was a car out front, but he could be off exploring in the woods somewhere, looking for whatever weird things it was he was studying.

Stan walked up to the front door full of purpose and determination, but then hesitated. “You haven’t seen your brother in almost ten years. It’s okay. He’s family; he won’t bite.” Stanley knocked.

The door opened a minute later to reveal Ford, looking a bit stressed and frazzled, but other than that, pretty good. Man, Stan really needed to start working out again. He didn’t know when, or how, but if _Ford_ was in better shape than he was, he’d have to figure something out.

“Stanley? What the hel-ck are you doing here?” Stanford demanded.

“Well, I can always count on you for a warm welcome,” Stan said sarcastically. “Figures that Ma wouldn’t call you.”

“What does our mother have to do with anything?” Stanford asked.

“She wrote me,” Stan said, waving the letter he was still holding as proof. “She said you’d called her because you were in trouble, but she was too old and frail to come out all this way and help herself” – Ha, that was a laugh. Their ma was the toughest old bird Stan had ever met, and she wasn’t even that old yet – “so I’d better come out and do it instead, if I knew what was good for me.”

“But when I spoke to her on the phone she said… that help was on the way. Of course she meant she was sending my criminal of a brother,” Stanford said, pinching the bridge of his nose under his glasses. “Of course.”

“Hey! That… is objectively true,” Stan admitted. It still hurt though, to have his brother call him a criminal like that, like that was all he thought Stan was. “Look, I’m here now, ain’t I? Why don’t you just tell me what the problem is, and maybe I can help. I’d like to.”

Jeez, how desperate was he? Here he was, being insulted by his brother while still standing on the front porch because Stanford hadn’t even had the decency to invite him in yet, and Stan was practically begging for a chance to help out anyway. You are a stupid, stupid man, Stanley Pines.

Just then there was a noise from behind Stanford. Stan peered around his brother and saw two little pairs of eyes peering right back at him. Stanford, who had also turned to look, sighed. “It’s alright children, you can come over.”

Two tiny kids – a boy and a girl who looked like they were four years old, maybe five, and who were almost definitely twins – came out from around the corner to the next room. They kept a hold on each other’s hands until they reached Stanford, and then they only let go so they could each grab a fistful of either of Stanford’s pant legs.

“Uh, not for nothing, but you haven’t been stealing little kids, have you? Because I’ve done some shady shit, but that’s a bit much even by my standards,” Stan said.

“No, I haven’t been kidnapping children,” Stanford snapped. Then he flushed a little, which was both weird and nostalgic. “I came about them in the usual way.” And now Stan was picturing his brother having sex. That was an image he could have happily gone his whole life without seeing and now it was seared into his brain forever. Great. “And don’t swear in front of the children.”

“It’s okay, Daddy. Mama already told us all the grown up words we’re not ‘apposed to say,” the little girl said.

“Why am I not surprised?” Stanford grumbled.

But Stan wasn’t listening to him, too busy looking at the two little ones clinging to him. It was the way the little girl had called Stanford “Daddy” that did it; it pushed Stan right past the image of his brother reproducing and onto the idea of him actually having kids, and what that meant. “Are you telling me I got a niece and another nephew?”

“That is how it works, yes,” Stanford answered. “These are my kids, Mabel and…” Stanford hesitated, which was kind of weird, since Stan assumed Stanford could remember his own kids’ names, but maybe the boy had started getting particular about what he wanted to be called. Stan and Ford had both gone through a phase when they had been about six when they both would only respond to the name Stan, not Lee or Ford, which is what their parents had been calling them before that or even Stanley or Stanford, just Stan. Not one of Stan’s better ideas, looking back on it, which is probably why Stanford had dropped it after a month. At least it had gotten people to stop calling Stan “Lee.”

“Mason,” the boy said.

“Mason,” Stanford echoed. “Kids, this is my brother, Stanley.”

Stan crouched down to look the kids in the eye. “Hey there kiddos, I‘m your Uncle Stan. And I’m not just your dad’s brother: we’re twins, just like I’m betting the two of you are.”

“But if you’re Daddy’s twin, how come you don’t have six fingers on your hand?” Mabel asked.

“Well if Mason here is your twin, how come he doesn’t have a pair of chompers like yours?” Stan asked, pointing at Mabel’s teeth and the girl grinned widely in response. “I mean look at those things. You could probably bite someone’s nose clean off if you wanted to with those.”

“Mabel and me are faternal twins,” Mason said. “That’s why Mabel is a girl and I’m a boy.”

“Well who says your dad and I can’t be fraternal twins?” Stan asked.

“But you’re both boys,” Mabel protested.

“No, Stanley’s right,” Stanford said. “While you’re correct that the two of you being different genders means that you must be fraternal twins, fraternal twins aren’t necessarily always different gendered.”

That seemed like kind of a complicated way to put it to a couple of kids, so Stan added, “It’s like this: Mason, your sister is a girl, right?”

“Yeah,” Mason said.

“And if you had another sister or ten more sisters they’d be girls too. But are all the girls in the world your sister?”

Mabel giggled. “That’s silly, Uncle Stan.”

“Exactly. So you see, Stanford and I can be fraternal twins even though we’re both boys. And that’s why I’ve only got five fingers, and no glasses-“

“You do have glasses, you just refuse to wear them,” Stanford said.

“Details,” Stan said dismissively, “Buut like I was saying, that’s also why Stanford has a butt chin and that ridiculous hair.” Both Stan and Ford had had the same curly-ish hair when they were kids, but as they got older, Stan’s had gotten more manageable to the point where he could almost flatten it out to lie straight, while Stanford’s had gotten noticeably fluffier. He could probably grow into an afro if he wanted, Stan thought, though that wouldn’t be a great look for him, possibly even worse than Stan’s mullet.

“I like Daddy’s hair,” Mabel said. “”Cuz it’s curly like me ‘n’ Dipper’s, just like Mama always said.”

“Oh yeah?” Stan said. He reached out to grab one of Mabel’s curls, and she gave a very large and noticeable flinch. Stan froze. Then he slowly – not so slow that it would look like he was trying to hide what he was doing, but more than slow enough that she could tell him to back off or move away deliberately if she wanted to, but she just kept watching him with wide eyes – he continued to reach out and grabbed one of her curls. He gave it the gentlest tug he could, then let go, letting the hair spring back into place. “Well, whaddya you know?” He said, giving her a large grin. “Your ma was right, you do have ridiculous hair just like your dad. Say, where is your ma anyway?”

“Not here,” Stanford answered, and man did he sound pissed about it. Probably had something to do with whatever trouble he was apparently in. Which, come to think of it, he hadn’t actually explained yet.

“So, what exactly was it that you needed help with, Ford?” Stan asked, standing up to look at his brother.

Stanford sighed. “You may as well come in for a bit,” he said, moving aside and pulling Mabel in a little closer to him to give Stan room. That seemed reasonable. Whatever it was, if it were a big enough deal that Ma thought she needed to ask Stan to help out, it probably wasn’t the kind of thing Stanford wanted to talk about out on his doorstep.

“Do you think I could borrow your phone?” Stan asked as Stanford led him into the front hall. “Ma wanted me to call her to let her know I came like she asked me to. I’ll try to keep it quick.”

“That’s fine,” Stanford answered. “I want to talk to her myself anyway. The phone’s over there. We’ll be in the kitchen,” Stanford said, pointing to either place in turn. He turned and walked off to the kitchen, Mason and Mabel still clinging to him.

Feeling a bit dismissed, Stanley went to go find the phone. This was bound to be an interesting conversation.

 

* * *

 

Stanford finished putting together the three plates he had been prepping for dinner before the knock on the door had interrupted him and set them on the table. Then he frowned, and went to make up a fourth plate for Stanley.

God, his brother was here. They hadn’t seen or spoken to each other in nearly ten years, and suddenly Stanley just showed up out of the blue at Stanford’s front door. What was he even supposed to do with that? And all this happening on top of the kids arriving just three weeks prior and the conversations he’d been having with Bill urging him to get things sorted out so Stanford could get back to work and all the townsfolk who had decided that they wanted to be friends with Stanford now after years of politely ignoring him up in his cabin in the woods; it was just too much all at once.

“Daddy?” Mabel said. “I thought you said it was our grandma that was coming to visit.”

“I thought she was,” Stanford answered. “I guess she decided that Oregon was too far for her to come.” That was one unlikely theory as to what she was up to anyway.

“And Uncle Stan lives closer?” Dipper asked.

Where had Stanley been before this? Nevada? New Mexico? Something that started with an N. Or maybe it was an M. Ma had told him he was sure, because she insisted on giving Stanford an update on Stanley whenever they spoke. Stanford had learned very quickly that it wasn’t worth the argument, so he mostly just tuned her out when she got on the subject. Maybe if Stanley ever showed any signs of wanting to reach out to Stanford to apologize for betraying him and completely derailing his life, Stanford would be willing to listen, but until then he just didn’t care. Besides, given that it was a pathological liar relaying the stories of a conman, who even knew how much of what he was being told was true.

“Yes,” Stanford finally said in response to Dipper’s question. If nothing else, pretty much anywhere in the continental US was closer to Oregon than New Jersey, and Stanley would have taken much longer to get here if he had still been in South America.

“Is he going to be staying with us?” said Dipper.

“I don’t know.” A better question: did Stanford even want Stanley to stay? Because he really did need the help with the children and as Stanley had said, he was here now and whatever else, Stanford knew that he could at least trust Stanley not to hurt the children the way they had been hurt before. But he didn’t know if he could trust Stanley to be a good influence on them, not with the life he had been leading. And then there was all the bad blood that existed between Stanford and Stanley; the last time they had seen each other had been when Stanley was getting kicked out of the house for betraying Stanford because apparently his stupid treasure hunting dream was more important to him than Stanford’s happiness. But he had come here now because he thought Stanford was in trouble, so maybe that meant he did feel some remorse for what he’d done and wanted to make amends. Maybe he deserved a second chance. And maybe he was a criminal now and maybe, even if he hadn’t wanted to admit it, Stanford had missed him anyway.

But he had definitely scared Mabel earlier when he went for her hair, which was an understandable mistake, but Stanford knew Stanley had saw her flinch, and he had kept reaching for her hair anyway. And that was more important than Stanford’s mixed up feelings about his brother, wasn’t it?

Besides, it was pretty obvious that Ma hadn’t told Stanley exactly what she was volunteering him to help Stanford out with. He probably didn’t even want to stay now that knew Stanford wasn’t in danger, and helping meant that Stanley would have to settle down for the long term to help Stanford take care of two children. No sense in Stanford getting all worked up over something that wasn’t going to happen.

“How come you never told us you were a twin?” Mabel asked, startling Stanford out of his thoughts.

“I suppose it never came up,” Stanford said.

“I _always_ tell people I have a twin,” Mabel pointed out.

“Yes, but your brother is always standing right next to you, so it would be pretty hard for it not to come up,” Stanford countered. Honestly, he was a little worried about how excessively close the two of them seemed sometimes. He assumed it had come about because of what they had been dealing with from before they had arrived at Stanford’s house, when they only had each other to rely on. And Stanford was glad that they had that because he couldn’t imagine either of them being as well-adjusted as they were had they had to face the kinds of things Stanford thought that they had had to face alone. But it was so very easy for being reliant on someone to become being dependent on them. And that could lead to resentment and feeling suffocated and betrayal and… well, suffice to say, Stanford didn’t want that for his children.

“You should have told us,” Dipper insisted.

“I’m telling you now,” Stanford replied. “I have a mother, father, a twin brother, and an older brother named Sherman, and he has a wife and a son that’s about five years older than the both of you.”

“We have two uncles and a cousin?” Mabel asked, sounding a bit amazed at the prospect.

“And Shermie’s wife is your aunt,” Stanford said.

The kids seemed to need a little time to process that, so Stanford ate his meal in silence for a few minutes until Stanley entered the room.

“She’s all ready for you,” he said.

“Okay,” Stanford said, getting up. “I made you a plate so help yourself. I’ll be right back.”

Stanford headed down the hall to the phone, but paused when he heard footsteps behind him. He turned back to see Dipper following him, with Mabel holding his hand and trailing just behind. That did not bode well for Stanley possibly helping him to care for the children. Stanford offered his right hand and Dipper took it, his thumb tracing back and forth over Stanford’s fingers, counting them.

Stanford picked up the phone with his free hand. “Hello, Ma.”

“Stanford Filbrick Pines, are you sassing your mother?”

“All I said was ‘hello,’” Stanford protested.

“It’s not about what you said, it’s about the way you said it,” Ma replied. Stanford heard the rumbling of his father’s voice saying something he couldn’t make out in the background. “I told you I’m handling it, Fil! Why don’t you to down to the bar and watch the game or something?” More grumbling, and then his mom spoke into the phone again, “Sorry about that, honey. You were saying to your mother in a polite and respectful tone of voice?”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were sending Stanley out here to help?” Stanford asked.

“For the same reason I let your brother think you were in real trouble and not just in over your head. Because I knew if I told the both of you what was really going on, then neither one of you would be willing to do what I asked,” Ma said.

“Don’t you think the fact that you had to lie to both of us was maybe a sign that we didn’t actually want to do what you wanted us to? We’re both adults; we can make our own decisions.”

“You may be adults, but no matter how old you get, you’ll never stop being my babies. And I couldn’t sit by and do nothing anymore while my babies we’re hurting,” she replied.

“I’m fine, Ma,” Stanford said. A little stressed at the moment trying to balance his work and his children, but those were both the things that made him happy, so he didn’t _need_ his brother. He was fine.

“That’s what Stanley always says to me whenever he manages to call: ‘I’m fine, Ma; don’t worry about me.’ I’m your mother, of course I worry. Are you going to stop worrying about those two kids of yours anytime soon?”

Stanford looked down at the children. Dipper was still counting Stanford’s fingers back and forth – it seemed to be a soothing ritual for him – and he gave a hesitant smile when he saw Stanford looking, which Stanford returned. Mabel was looking back down the hall giggling at something, but Dipper must have squeezed her hand, because she turned around and grinned when she saw Stanford smiling at them, and gave a little wave. “No,” he admitted.

“And your little ones are right there where you can keep an eye on them and you know they can watch out for each other. My two little babies have been out in the big wide world all by themselves. Now I don’t blame you for leaving, and Moses knows Stanley didn’t have a choice in the matter, but it’s hard on a mother,” she said.

“Would it make you feel better if I called more often?” Stanford offered, feeling guilty. Aside from his call a week and a half ago to explain to her about the children and ask for help – that had not been a fun conversation – it had been months since he had last talked to his mother. He couldn’t imagine going months without talking to Dipper and Mabel even after they had grown up and were out on their own.

“I would like that very much,” Ma said. “But what I really want is for you to let your brother help you and you two boys to patch things up.”

“It’s not that simple. Even if I wanted to” – and honestly, Stanford still had some reservations about trying to make up with his brother – “It’s not just about what I want anymore. I’m afraid that Stanley won’t be… delicate or tactful enough for what I need help with,” Stanford said, very aware of the fact that the children were right there and could hear every word he was saying.

“Look Stanford, I know those kids of yours have been through a lot, but they’re Pines kids… They are Pines, aren’t they?”

“Their mother gave them my last name,” Stanford confirmed. He wondered about that, if maybe a part of Steph had known all along she wasn’t fit to raise two children, and if so, why in the hell it had taken her nearly six years to do something about it.

“Doesn’t matter,” Ma said dismissively. “Either way, they’d still be Pines, and Pines are tough. I ain’t saying it’s not a good idea to be a little gentle, but those kids aren’t going to break neither.”

Stanford gripped Dipper’s hand tighter. “But what if they do?”

“Oh, Ford,” Ma sighed. “How about this: you try letting your brother help you out for a week, and if after that you and Stanley just can’t get along and he’s no good for the kids, you call me and I’ll come. But I want you to really try. Can you promise me that, from one worried parent to another?”

“I suppose I can,” Stanford said. Maybe it really was time for a second chance, to let past mistakes be regulated to the past where they belonged. Of course, that didn’t change the fact that presently Stanley was a thief and a charlatan. But also presently, where Mabel was standing would give her a view into the kitchen and something that she was watching Stanley do in there was making her giggle. And that was more important than Stanford’s mixed up feelings about his brother, wasn’t it?

“Good. Now are those two kids of yours awake this time?” Ma asked.

“Yeah, they’re standing right here,” Stanford said.

“Well then what are you still doing on the phone for? I want to talk to my new grandbabies.” Stanford obligingly handed the phone over to Dipper, who talked to her for maybe a minute before he passed the phone over to Mabel who chattered away at her for at least five minutes, if not ten. Finally the phone was handed back over to Stanford.

“That’s a good pair of kids you got there, Stanford,” Ma said once he was back on the phone.

“I know,” Stanford said.

“Well, Mabel said you were eating dinner before we started talking, so I’ll let you get back to it. I love you.”

“I love you too,” Stanford said back, a bit surprised. He knew his mother cared for him, but she had never been all that verbally affectionate when he had been growing up. It must be her two new grandkids pulling it out of her; it wouldn’t be the first time Dipper and Mabel managed something like that.

“And Stanford, remember Stanley loves you a lot too,” she said.

“I… I’ll talk to you soon, Ma. Goodbye,” Stanford said hanging up the phone.

Dipper and Mabel spent the rest of the night being very clingy, Dipper especially, which Stanford could only hope was just an instinctive reaction to having someone new they didn’t know in the house, and not a permanent regression. Either way, it meant that Stanford didn’t have a chance to talk to Stanley about everything until after he had put the kids to bed.

“I’m afraid I don’t have any extra bedrooms, but you can sleep on the couch in my thinking parlor,” Stanford said, holding up the extra blankets and the pillow he’d brought down from upstairs for Stanley to use. “I’ve slept on it on a number of occasions and it’s pretty comfortable.”

“It’s gotta be more comfortable than my car,” Stanley joked as Stanford began leading them to his thinking parlor.

“Right,” Stanford said. He thought Stanley had been joking, but honestly it hadn’t sounded like a joke. It had sounded like Stanley had slept in his car before, and not just once or twice, which would have made a reasonable degree of sense given how much he moved around, but a lot. But why wouldn’t Stanley just stay in a hotel or even a motel, unless he couldn’t afford do, unless maybe he was doing much worse off than he had let on to their mother.

Stanford stopped himself right there. He was too used to the kids and having to dissect everything they said to try to figure out what they had been subjected to while under their mother’s “care.” Stanley was just joking around, like he did. Stanley was fine, had been fine.

“So,” Stanley said after a few moments of silence. “The genius forgot to use a condom, huh?”

“I used a condom,” Stanford objected. Honestly, he might not have as much experience in the area as Stanley, but he wasn’t a complete idiot. Not smart enough just to turn Steph down in the first place, but not a complete idiot.

“So the genius forgot to check the condom’s expiration date, then,” Stanley said.

“Condoms expire?”

Stanley laughed. He was definitely laughing at Stanford, if for no other reason than it was impossible to laugh with someone who wasn’t actually laughing, but there was nothing cruel or mocking about the sound. If anything, Stanley’s laughter seemed to be inviting him to join in on the joke. “Yeah Ford, condoms expire.”

“Oh,” Stanford said, flushing slightly. “That may have been the root of the problem.”

“Well hey, lucky you, right?”

Ford smiled as he dropped his pile of bedding on the couch for Stan. “Yeah, lucky me.” Then Stanford sighed and turned around to look at his brother. “About you helping me take care of the kids…”

“Yeah, about that. Obviously I didn’t know what I was coming up here to help you with and you probably figured out or Ma told you that the reason she didn’t tell me was she was worried I wouldn’t have come if I knew. I don’t know if she’s right about that or not, but I’m here now. And those kids of yours, they’re good kids. So I’m willing to help out for as long as you need me,” Stanley said.

“I don’t know if I want you to,” Stanford admitted.

“Oh.” And dammit, even if Stanford was still a bit angry with his brother, he never wanted to hurt him. Even at his angriest, Stanford hadn’t wanted Stanley hurt, he just wanted his brother to go away and leave him be. And Stanford didn’t even know that he wanted that any more.

“It’s just, you’ve only been here for a few hours and you’ve already terrified Mabel. She doesn’t like it when people touch her hair.”

“I noticed,” Stanley said. “But sayin’ I terrified her is a bit much, don’t you think?”

“No I don’t. You don’t understand, what you saw today was a very subdued reaction compared to normal. Most of the time when someone touches her hair she screams and tries to hide herself. Even I’ve only managed to convince her to let me brush it about four times since they arrived. Arrived covered in bruises and while I don’t know the full story because they won’t tell me, I do know that someone hit them, and that wasn’t the first time it happened either,” Stanford told him, his tone clipped and matter-of-fact because that was the only way he could get through talking about what happened without yelling, and the kids were trying to sleep.

Stanley went pale as a sheet. “Stanford, you don’t think that I…”

“No, I know you wouldn’t ever hurt them like that,” Stanford assured him. “But there’s more to taking care of children, especially abused children, than not hitting them. And you scared Mabel today.”

“I also made her laugh, a couple a’ times. That’s gotta count for something too, right?” Stanley said.

“It does,” Stanford agreed. “I promised Ma - that is, I want you to stay for the week and help out. We can see how it goes, and then I’ll decide what I want to do from there, alright? I need you to understand, this isn’t about you, Stanley; this is about me making sure my children are well taken care of and happy.”

“Right,” Stanley said with a jerky nod. “That’s good. I mean, that’s what a good dad is supposed to do, put his kids first, right? Not that I have much experience with good dads, but, well for what it’s worth it seems like you are one. A good dad.”

“Thank you,” Stanford said. He didn’t know that he believed it, but the fact that Stan would say it meant… well, it meant something. “If you don’t need anything else, then I’m going to go down to my study and try to get a little work done before I go to bed. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“See you in the morning,” Stanley said. Stanford turned to leave and was just about to exit the room when Stanley called out to him again. “Ford?”

“Yes?”

“I… I just wanted to say this was a nice place you’ve got here. And Ma’s been keeping me up to date on what you’ve been doing, all the degrees and the college grants and stuff. I’m just glad everything worked out for you.”

“It wasn’t easy, especially not after-” Stanford bit down on his next words hard, but not before Stanley flinched. “Well, anyway. Thank you. Again.” There was a long pregnant pause where it seemed like each of them were waiting for the other to say something, but when neither of them did, Stanford concluded with, “Goodnight, Stan.”

“Night, Ford.”

 

* * *

 

Mabel ‘n’ Dipper were lying down together in one of their beds because they were ‘apposed to be going to sleep. _One_ _of_ their beds ‘cuz Daddy had got two whole beds for them, one for Dipper with a light blue blanket with white stripes and one for Mabel with a white blanket with rainbow polka spots. But even though they both had their very own bed, they liked to sleep together in Dipper’s bed where they could see out the door into the hallway ‘cuz it was safer that way.

“Even though we already know it’s really safe here,” Dipper had told Daddy, which was good, because Mabel hadn’t meant to make it sound like she didn’t think Daddy was doing a good job because Daddy was doing the best job, and sometimes when Dipper used ta say things to Mama like he didn’t think she was being a good Mama she got really mad. But Daddy just looked a little sad and told them to stay safe and tucked them in and gave the both scratchy Daddy kisses on the forehead.

Dipper turned over to look at Mabel, and his face was all worried looking. “Mabel, what if Uncle Stan stays a really long time, like a Boyfriend?” That was an important thing to be worried about because Boyfriends were almost always Bad and sometimes they stayed for weeks and weeks and months and months.

“But Uncle Stan’s not a Boyfriend,” Mabel said. “He’s a twin.” And Dipper and Mabel and Daddy were all twins so twins were always Good.

“He pulled your hair,” Dipper said.

Mabel frowned. She didn’t like it when people pulled her hair, even when Good people did it like Mama used to do sometimes when she was really angry with Mabel, ‘cuz it hurt really bad. But even though Mabel never liked getting her hair pulled on before, she really, really didn’t like it after the Last Boyfriend did it the last time. Mama had been asleep from her smelly grown up drink and her medicine and the Last Boyfriend had found Dipper ‘n’ Mabel where they were hiding from him because he was Bad. He had grabbed Mabel by her arms and he was trying to touch her where Mabel did not want to be touched. So Mabel bit him, and Dipper jumped on him. But the Last Boyfriend threw Dipper off of him and then he grabbed Mabel by the hair and held her up in the air and punched her tummy. Mabel screamed louder than she ever could before because it hurt so bad, and Dipper was hurt, and she didn’t want the Last Boyfriend to touch her. Mabel screamed so, so loud that Mama woke up and asked the Last Boyfriend what he was doing. And the Last Boyfriend told her all the Bad things he wanted to do, and then Mama _punched_ him and said all the bad grown up words they weren’t ‘apposed to say and made the Last Boyfriend leave. Then the next morning she packed up Mabel ‘n’ Dipper’s backpacks and told them she was taking them to live with Daddy.

That’s when Mabel decided that anyone that ever pulled her hair must be Bad, ‘cept Mama. And Daddy, but Daddy never pulled her hair, even though he wanted to brush it all the time and that hurt too, but he never made Mabel brush it if she didn’t want to because he was Good. Only… “It didn’t even hurt when Uncle Stan pulled my hair,” Mabel told Dipper. “Not even a little, little bit. It was just like this.” Mabel reached over and pulled on Dipper’s hair a teeny tiny bit and then let go. “See? I think he’s Good.”

It was Mabel’s job to tell which people were Bad and they needed to hide from and which were okay and would leave them alone and which were Good. But after she told Dipper that, she waited to see what he would say. Because sometimes even when Mabel thought someone was Good, Dipper wasn’t sure they were and so Mabel ‘n’ Dipper hid from them anyway. Because it was Mabel’s job to keep Dipper safe and it was Dipper’s job to keep Mabel safe.

Dipper thought and thought for a long time, then he said, “Even if Uncle Stan is worse than Daddy like Boyfriends are worse than Mama, I still don’t think he’ll be Bad.”

Mabel grinned. “Because Daddy is the best.”


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally this chapter was going to have more in it, but then this scene just got so long, I decided to split it off and make it a chapter in itself. So please enjoy this fluffy, fluffy mush with just a light sprinkle of angst.

When Stanford got up the next morning, Stanley was nowhere to be found, and when he looked outside, his brother’s car was gone too. Stanford wasn’t entirely sure what he had been expecting to be the result of this weeklong trial period they were about to undertake, but he certainly hadn’t thought Stanley would walk out before it had even begun. Stanford had thought… well, a lot of stupid sentimental things not worth dwelling on, as it turned out. Fine, Stanford would just call Ma up again after breakfast and let her know that Stanley had left, and ask her to come out. It would be better that way anyway.

Or so Stanford told himself, but that didn’t explain the sense of relief he felt when he heard the sound of a car pulling up out front, followed by the front door opening. “Shi-hot Belgian waffles,” Stanley swore when he walked into the kitchen and saw all of them gathered at the table eating. Ford quirked an amused eyebrow at him. “What did I do to get landed with a family full of early birds?”

“It’s nearly eight thirty,” Stanford pointed out. “Besides, you were the one who was up and gone before any of the rest of us woke up. So who exactly is the early bird here?”

“Eight thirty is early. And for your information, poindexter, I was trying to be back before the rest of you got up.”

“Why? What were you up to?” Stanford asked, feeling more than a bit suspicious. He brother was a self-admitted criminal after all.

“I was just grabbing a couple of things at that convenience store in town,” Stanley answered, holding up a bag with the Dusk 2 Dawn logo on it. “Things that they just gave me for free. I don’t know what kind of racket you’ve got running up here, Ford, but when I walked into that store, well, actually, when I first walked in they were kinda hacked off at me, because they thought I was you and I had left Mason and Mabel up here at the house all alone. But after I explained I was your twin and I was in town to help you out with the kids, they were falling all over themselves to help out and give me things. I didn’t even have to try and shoplift anything.”

“Stanley!” Stanford said.

“Which of course I wouldn’t have done, because shoplifting is stealing and stealing is wrong.”

Stanford huffed out an annoyed breath. It was better that Stanley had said it than not, but it would have been ideal if he actually sounded like he believed what he was saying.

“What didja get?” Mabel asked. Thankfully she was back in a seat by herself this morning, rather than sharing with her brother as they had reverted to the night before.

“A couple a’ things,” Stanley said, digging in his bag. He pulled something out and handed it to Mabel.

Her eyes went wide. “Is this for me?”

“Well, they sure aren’t for me,” Stanley said.

Stanford leaned over to look at what Mabel was holding and frowned. It was a pair of hairclips with little yellow stars followed by tails in hot pink plastic. “Daddy can you put them in?” Mabel asked, offering him the clips.

“Hold up there,” Stanley said. “I mean, these are some pretty nice hairclips. Too nice to be stuck in hair that’s too messy to see them.”

Mabel frowned, patting her tangled hair. She looked at Stanley, looked down at her hairclips, and then looked back to Stanley. She nodded and hopped off her chair. “I’ll be right back,” she said, running off.

Stanford turned to glare at his brother. “I told you she doesn’t like people to touch her hair.”

“I didn’t touch her hair. Mason, did I touch your sister’s hair?” Stanley said.

“You don’t need to answer that,” Stanford told Dipper. “I know you didn’t touch her hair, but you got her _hair_ clips.”

“And she loves ‘em,” Stanley said dismissively. “Don’t think I forgot about you either, buddy.” Stanley reached into his bag again, this time pulling out a brown baseball cap with a green pine tree embroidered on the front of it. Stanley fiddled with the back to pull the hat to its tightest setting and plopped it on Dipper’s head, where, despite Stanley’s efforts, it slipped down to Dipper’s eyebrows. “Eh, you’ll grow into it.”

Dipper touched the hat right at the spot where it was covering his birthmark. The birthmark that Stanley almost certainly hadn’t known about and had just lucked into the exact right gift to make Dipper less self-conscious. “Thank you, Uncle Stan.”

“Sure thing, kid,” Stanley said.

Just then Mabel came back in, still holding her hairclips in one hand and her comb in the other. She walked up to Stanford and held her comb up to him. “Will you brush my hair so I can put in my new hairclips?” she asked.

“Of course,” Stanford said, blinking in surprise. Normally Mabel would, at best, begrudgingly allow him to brush her hair when he’d suggested it enough times, and yet here she was bringing him her comb and climbing up in his lap expectantly. But even in her eagerness for her new hairclips, she couldn’t stop herself from wincing when Stanford began tackling her tangles.

“What’re you doing, Ford? You’re supposed to start at the bottom,” Stanley said.

Stanford looked at the comb and then looked up in Stanley in confusion. “What does that even mean?”

Stanley snatched the comb from Stanford. “Here, give me that.”

“Stanley.”

“Oh, right.” Stanley crouched in front of Mabel. “I’m going to help your dad brush your hair, because this knucklehead is doing it wrong and that’s why it hurts so bad, okay sweetie?”

“Okay,” Mabel agreed.

Stanley raised his eyebrows at Stanford, and while Stanford still didn’t appreciate Stanley’s cavalier attitude especially after what Stanford had told him the night before, he had at least asked Mabel’s permission, and she had given it, so Stanford leaned back a bit to give his brother some room. Stanley used his free hand to grab a section of Mabel’s hair about an inch up from the bottom. He brushed that part out completely before sliding his hand up another inch or so higher and brushing that section.

“That’s better, isn’t it?” Stanley asked her as he gestured for Stanford to take up the task again.

“Lots better,” Mabel said. “You’re really good at brushing hair, Uncle Stan.”

“That’s what the ex-wife used to tell me. Of course, whenever she said it, she always ended it with, ‘and nothing else,’” Stanley replied.

“I’m sorry, did you say ex-wife?” Stanford asked. Stanley had been married? That was… well, probably not any more unexpected than Stanford having children he supposed, but how had he not known?

“Yeah, I was married for a hot minute a couple years back. Well, more like a horrific six hours, but that’s Vegas for you,” Stanley said. Ah yes, that would make more sense. “Anyway, you’re doing a good job letting your dad brush your hair there, Mabel. That deserves a prize.” He reached into his bag yet again – just how much stuff had he gotten? – and pulled out a packet of stickers. He opened it up, pulled off the first sticker, and pressed it to Mabel’s shirt.

“Stickers!” Mabel cried, delighted, because of course she was. The kids were five years old and Stanley had gotten them stickers.

“Are you trying to bribe my children into liking you?” Stanford asked.

“Shamelessly,” Stanley replied with a cocky grin. For some reason it struck Ford as endearing.

“Can Dipper have a sticker too?” Mabel said.

“I’m not sure,” Stanley said thoughtfully. He looked at Dipper and asked, “What have you done to earn yourself a sticker like your sister has?”

Dipper bit his lip. “I don’t know?”

“You helped me set the table for breakfast this morning,” Stanford reminded him.

Stanley glanced at Stanford, then looked back at Dipper expectantly. “Did you?”

“Yeah, I did,” Dipper said.

“Alright then, have yourself a… crying spoon?” Stanley said, giving his sheet of stickers a perplexed look. “Yeesh, what kind of stickers did I get you guys?” He frowned at them a moment longer, then shrugged and placed the crying spoon on Dipper’s shirt.

“Uncle Stan, I helped Daddy bring the dishes from the table to the sink after dinner last night,” Mabel put in.

“You sure did. Have another sticker,” Stanley said, placing one on her cheek this time. “Your turn Mason, what did you do to deserve a sticker? And no cheating this time, Ford.”

“Um…” said Dipper, still chewing on his lip.

“C’mon kiddo, I know you did something amazing to earn yourself this… well I’m not really sure what this is supposed to be, but it also looks pretty depressed. So what did you do?” Stanley asked.

“I ate all my dinner and all my vegetables gone last night?” Dipper said, the uncertainty in his voice sending a pang of guilt through Stanford. Dipper was such a good kid – they both were – and yet Stanford had somehow failed to communicate that to him, such that Dipper wasn’t even sure he deserved a measly sticker.

“That sounds pretty impressive to me,” Stanford said, giving Dipper an encouraging smile. “From what I recall, you hardly ever ate all your vegetables, Stanley.”

“You kidding me? I never ate all my vegetables. I just snuck them onto Shermie’s plate when he wasn’t looking,” Stanley said.

“And after he went off to college you stuck them on my plate, I’m sure,” Stanford said.

“And give you more vegetables to eat? Nah, I wouldn’t do that to you, Sixer,” Stanley said easily. “I just hid them in my napkin. But if you actually ate all of yours Mason, then that’s definitely worth a sticker.” Stanley pulled a sticker off his sheet and obligingly placed it on the back of Dipper’s hand when the boy stuck it out.

“Well, I ate _almost_ all my vegetables last night,” Mabel said.

“Eh, close enough,” Stanley said, giving her another sticker. Then he turned back to Dipper.

“I read Mabel a bedtime story all by myself last night,” Dipper said.

“What? No way you’re old enough to read, kid. You’re what, three, three and a half years old?” Stanley said jokingly.

“No, we’re five and,” – Dipper counted on his fingers, quietly saying the names of the months to himself. – “ten twelves.”

“You’re teaching these kids _fractions_ already?” Stanley asked incredulously.

“Dipper has a very good head for numbers,” Stanford said.

“Surrounded by a bunch of early birds and brainiacs, I tell ya. What on Earth did I do to deserve this, huh Mabel?”

“Hmmm…” Mabel said thoughtfully. “I think you probably did lots and lots of really good stuff to get to stay here, because Daddy and Dipper are the best.”

Stanford couldn’t even begin to tell what the expression Stanley made in response to that might be or how to describe it, only that looking at it… He tore his gaze away, telling himself that he needed to focus on a particularly stubborn knot in Mabel’s hair.

“I think that list of yours is one person short,” Stanley said with a certain gruffness to his tone that faded – was hidden? – away as he continued. “I don’t get presents for just anyone you know.” He reached over and tapped his finger against one of the hairclips sitting on the table in front of Mabel.

Stanley cleared his throat. “Anyway Mason, you said you read to your sister? That’s gotta be worth two stickers, one for reading a book by yourself, and one for watching out for your sister.” As he said it, Stanley pressed a sticker onto each of Dipper’s shirt sleeves.

Things continued on in that fashion, with the kids suggesting things that they had done that might have earned them a sticker, and Stanley meeting even the smallest task with a prize and gifting out two or three, or on one occasion five, stickers for other bigger accomplishments. Stanley never lost his composure again throughout, even as Dipper and Mabel started drawing on events from before they’d come to stay with Stanford, and Stanford himself had to bow out of the conversation for fear of derailing it with more assurances that nothing like that was ever going to happen to them again. Not that Stanford thought that that sort of thing could ever be said too much, but the children were having fun at the moment, competing with each other to see who could get the most stickers in a single go and giggling as Stan placed the stickers on them in increasingly ridiculous places.

Stanford did keep a careful eye on how many stickers were being passed out to each child, in case he needed to intercede if one of them starting getting significantly more than the other. But in spite of the rather haphazard way Stanley was handing them out, when he got to the very last sticker, which he ripped in two and pressed a half to the tip of each of the kids’ noses after declaring he couldn’t decide between Mabel calling the ‘Pointy Boyfriend’ a meanie and a stupid-face and Dipper helping their mother to bed after she passed out from her ‘medicine,’ Dipper and Mabel each had thirty-seven and a half stickers. Quite a coincidence that.

Right about that same time, Stanford finished brushing Mabel’s hair, and he carefully placed the hairclips so they held the hair on either side of her forehead out of her face. “C’mon Dipper!” she cried. “Let’s go see our stickers and my clips in the mirror.” The two of them scampered off to the restroom.

Stanley reached into the bag again this time pulling out two cans of Pitt Cola and lightly tossing one to Stanford. Stanford frowned. “Did you actually pay for these at least?”

“Hey, they were giving me stuff for free and you expect me not to get anything for myself? Look, that’s all I got,” Stanley said, crumpling up the plastic bag to illustrate his point. “It’s just a couple a’ cans of soda, Ford.”

“I suppose,” Stanford acknowledged, popping his can open. “But please remember this isn’t like any of the other towns you’ve been flitting through where you can just leave after you’ve pissed everyone off. The kids and I still have to live here.”

“Yeah. Right,” Stanley said. He looked down at his soda can and tapped it a few times before popping it open and taking a drink.

“So. Hairclips,” Stanford said, though he couldn’t recapture his earlier anger over it.

“Well, you said that she didn’t like you to brush her hair. And the easiest way to get someone to do something isn’t to force them into it; ya gotta make them think it was their idea,” Stanley explained.

“I’m not sure I like the idea of you treating my daughter like she’s a mark,” Stanford said.

“It’s not like that,” Stanley said. “I was just trying to help.”

“You did,” Stanford admitted. “She’s never been that willing to have her hair brushed, or been that calm throughout the process. The hat for Dipper was for the sake of fairness, I assume?”

“Yeah, I didn’t want to get something for Mabel and not him,” Stanley said.

“And the stickers?”

“Well, I was thinking about what you said last night about what Mason and Mabel have gone through – which from what they’ve been saying today, you kind of undersold,” Stanley said.

“Yes, well a lot of that were things I hadn’t heard before specifically. They don’t like to talk about it, and I don’t like to push them if they’re feeling uncomfortable,” said Stanford.

“I get that, I guess,” Stanley said. “Anyway, I was thinking about that and about what you said about how taking care of those two little niblets is about more than just not being an utter shit like their ma and her string of boyfriends.”

“Stanley,” Stanford reprimanded. He felt like he was doing that a lot this morning.

“What? Is this about the swearing? The kids aren’t even in the room right now,” Stanley objected.

“But they could have been in the hall just around the corner for all you knew,” Stanford pointed out. “Besides, you and I know that their mother was, let’s say less than ideal, and I think Dipper realizes it too, but Mabel is still very fond of her and it upsets her to hear disparaging remarks about their mother.”

“OK, sorry,” Stanley said, though he didn’t sound all that sorry. “There’s more to taking care of them than not being a terrible person. Better?”

“Better,” Stanford agreed.

“So I was thinking about that and then I got to thinking about Dad. I ain’t saying he was abusive or nothing, but I gotta work with what I know, right? And I know that Pa was never impressed by anything I ever did in my entire life.”

“That’s a bit of an exaggeration, don’t you think? I know he wasn’t impressed easily, but never in your entire life?” Stanford said.

“Name one thing I ever did that he was impressed by,” Stanley demanded.

“You fixed up and maintained that car of yours. Still are from the looks of it,” answered Stanford.

“Nah, he wasn’t _impressed_ by that. Remember what he kept saying after I got it, that ‘a real man knows how to take care of his car.’ I didn’t impress him, just lived up to his standards for once. Which hey, it’s not nothing, but it’s not impressing him either,” Stanley said.

“Well, there was…” Stanford began, then trailed off as he drew a total blank. In fact, aside from attracting West Coast Tech with his science fair project, Stanford couldn’t recall a single thing that either of them had done to get their dad to say he was impressed. Pa hadn’t been _that_ hard on them, had he?

Stanley gave him a tight smile. “Told ya. I know it’s not really the same thing, because those kids have been through stuff that’s a lot worse than what we ever did, and I’m not their dad, just some guy they only met yesterday, but still… I just wanted them to know that I was impressed with ‘em, is all.”

“That’s actually a really nice thought,” Stanford said. “And I know the kids appreciated it.”

Stanley’s smile in response to that was much more genuine than his last one, and more than a bit infectious. “They were having fun, weren’t they?”

“They were,” Stanford agreed, before bringing his expression back down to a more serious one. “But _I_ would appreciate it if you asked me the next time before you did something like this.”

“For the big stuff, sure. But this was just a couple a’ little presents. I only didn’t ask because I knew you’d say yes anyway,” Stanley said.

“No, not just for the big stuff,” Stanford replied firmly. “You thought you knew I say yes, and this time you were right, but you didn’t actually know. And they’re still my kids, my responsibility. I don’t think I’m being unreasonable here.”

Stanley deflated a little bit. That was a good thing, Stanford told himself; it meant that Stanley was taking this seriously. “No, you’re right. I’ll ask next time.”

Stanford smiled at him. “Thank you, Stan.” Maybe, somehow, this could all work out after all.


	7. Chapter Seven

For the first few days it all went okay. Went well even. Not great, but Stanford hadn’t been expecting great. To be honest, he had been half-expecting an unmitigated disaster, so okay was… well, okay was great, relatively speaking.

They still disagreed on a lot of things, but that had been true even back when they had been children. For all that they were twins, they were very different people with different ways of looking at the world. It was just that none of that had mattered at all back then the way it did now for some reason. No, not some reason, for two very specific reasons. But Ford’s reasons were turning out to be Stan’s reasons too, and while that made it harder, it also made it easier. Take, for example, when Stanley had found out about Stanford’s moratorium on alcohol. He had protested quite vehemently at first, but after Stanford had explained why he didn’t want it around the children, Stanley had… well, actually he still had protested it. But it was the reason why he protested that was important; he thought that it would be good for Dipper and Mabel to be exposed to someone who drank responsibly, so they could learn that not everyone who had a can of beer was an alcoholic. Stanford didn’t agree with Stanley’s logic, but at least there was a logic in it, and it was motivated out of care for the children, not entirely out of self-interest. Stan was trying, and that was probably the best Ford could say for himself most days when you got right down to it.

So it was going okay, well enough that Ford felt comfortable asking Stan to watch the kids for the morning while Stanford went down to the lab to start sorting through his pile of inventions. He was hoping to find some things he could patent so he could sell the patents as an extra income source. The money the university was paying him, which had been more than ample back when it was just him, had started to stretch painfully tight now that he had two children to support as well. If Stan ended up staying for more than just the week then they would need to be bringing more money in. Of course, if Stan was going to be here long-term, then he could potentially get a job himself, but given his extensive criminal record and his lack of education – had Stanley ever even bothered to get his GED? Stanford knew he didn’t have a high school diploma – that might be rather difficult. Besides, if Stanley went and got a job, then they’d just be back in the same situation as before, with Stanford having no one to watch Dipper and Mabel while he worked. No better that Stan watch the children full time, and Ford figure out a way to make more money. He wasn’t sure what, patents were well and good, but only if they were something someone would be interested in buying, and it wasn’t as if he were a mechanical genius on par with Fiddleford or anything, but he’d think of something. Just so long as things kept going okay.

It was as he was musing that, coming upstairs from the lab for a late lunch, that things all went horribly, horribly wrong.

“Put me down!” Dipper screamed, the sound raw and fearful and powerful as it echoed through the house.

Stanford ran to the kitchen where the shout had come from, his mind overrun with the worst case scenarios, creatures or home invaders or their mother come back to try and take them. But when Stanford got there, there was nothing and no one there that shouldn’t be, just Stanley, Dipper, and Mabel. “What’s going on?” Stanford demanded, his body still pumping with adrenaline as his mind tried to make sense of what he’d just heard compared to what he as seeing.

“Daddy,” Dipper cried, running over and grabbing onto Stanford. Mabel kept a hold on her brother, looking distressed, but more because her brother was upset than anything else, Stanford thought.

“It’s alright,” Stanford reassured the two of them. He offered his hand to Dipper, and the boy grabbed onto it with both of his and held it close to himself. “Stanley, what happened?”

“Mason was trying to get himself a glass down from the cupboard here,” Stanley said, indicating the open cabinet with a chair pushed up to the counter next to it. “He couldn’t quite reach so I came and picked him up to help, and he got a bit scared. So I put him back down, and that’s about when you came in.”

“I see,” Stanford said. And he could understand very well how something like that might have happened, but that only did so much to calm the panic that had stormed through him when he thought his children were in danger. He gave Stanley a look, to make sure his brother knew that the two of them would be discussing this further later – just because he could understand how it _could_ have happened, didn’t mean that it was something that _should_ have happened – and then turned back to Dipper and Mabel. “Come on children, I think it’s time for quiet time.” Honestly, they could all probably use it right about now.

Quiet time was something that Stanford had put in place after it became apparent that, despite their protests that they weren’t babies and they didn’t need naps, Mabel did actually need a nap most days to keep from getting too cranky by the end of the day. Dipper only fell asleep once or twice a week during their daily quiet hour, but he didn’t seem to mind lying in bed and having Stanford read to him or tell him stories every day while his sister slept next to him. Altogether it seemed like a very good arrangement.

But today when Stanford tucked him in, Dipper looked upset. Which, to be fair, he had been very upset a few minutes ago, but normally the ritual of getting ready for quiet time soothed the children. “I didn’t know that it was Uncle Stan who grabbed me before. That’s why I yelled at him, ‘cuz I didn’t know. Don’t be mad,” Dipper said.

“Did Stanley tell you he was going to be picking you up, or ask you if it was okay?” Stanford asked him.

“No,” Dipper answered.

“And he came up behind you, so you couldn’t see it was him, right?” Stanford said, and Dipper nodded. “Well, there you are. You couldn’t have possibly known it was him, and I can’t get mad at you for not being able to do impossible things. And it’s okay to yell at someone if they’re doing something to you that you don’t want them to do. It’s better to ask them to stop first, usually, but I promised to never get mad at you for yelling because you’re scared, okay?”

“Okay,” Dipper said. “I love you, Daddy.”

“And I love you, son,” Stanford said, ruffling Dipper’s hair.

“And me too!” Mabel said.

“And you too,” Stanford agreed, giving her a pat on the cheek. “Now what story did the two of you want today?”

By the time about thirty minutes had passed, both Mabel and Dipper were sound asleep. Hardly surprising after the scare he’d had earlier; it must have worn Dipper out. Stanford was feeling much more relaxed as well, but a good deal of that calm dissipated when he went back downstairs and found Stanley still in the kitchen.

“How’re the kids?” Stanley asked.

“They’re doing better,” Stanford said.

“Good. I didn’t meant to scare Mason like that; it was an accident,” said Stanley.

“It’s always an accident with you, isn’t it?” Stanford said, more to himself than anything.

Of course, that didn’t mean that Stanley didn’t hear it. “And what’s that’s supposed to mean?” he demanded.

“It’s nothing,” Stanford said. He was supposed to be past this. Yes, Stanley had done something terrible to him and never apologized for it, but that had been almost ten years ago and Stanford was supposed to be leaving the past in the past and letting Stanley presence and help in the here and now be the amends he needed. “But Dipper did mention that the reason he was frightened was that you didn’t warn him before you picked him up, so he didn’t realize it was you.”

“Well, the three of us were the only ones in the kitchen. I didn’t think-“

“That’s the problem, you don’t think,” Stanford interrupted. “Your actions have consequences, Stanley, not just for you, but for the people around you. You have to consider that before you do things like picking up a five year old with a history of being abused without warning him. Of course that was going to end badly.”

“We can’t all be geniuses thinking ten steps ahead on everything,” Stanley said, an edge of bitterness to his voice. “But you’re right, sorry. It won’t happen again. On the bright side, at least we figured out that’s something that’ll freak him out now while we’re at home, right?”

“No, you don’t get to do that,” Stanford said. “You can’t talk about the bright side or the silver lining like that somehow mitigates what you did. Sometimes a screw up is just a screw up, and you need to own up to that. Especially since your screw ups seem to have knack for making someone else pay for them.”

“Making someone else pay…? I scared the kid, not traumatized him. I ain’t saying it’s a good thing that I accidentally scared him, but it happens. Kids get scared and by this time tomorrow he’ll probably be over it.” Stanley let out an angry huff. “This is stupid. You’re not mad about the thing with Mason.”

“Oh, you’re going to tell me how I feel now?” Stanford said.

“Yeah I am, because if we’re going to fight I’d rather fight about what we’re actually fighting about. You’re not mad about me picking Mason up because we both know it was a stupid mistake, I apologized to you and Mason already, and I’ll apologize to him again when he’s feeling less freaked out. No, you’re hacked off because I broke your stupid Science Fair project, and despite the fact that it happened _nearly ten years ago Stanford_ , and your life as worked out just perfectly anyway, you haven’t moved past it yet.”

“My life worked out perfectly?” Stanford repeated, incredulous. “You have no idea the things I’ve had to go through to get to this point.”

“No, no, you don’t know what I’ve been through. I’ve been to prison in three different countries. I once had to chew my way out of the trunk of a car. You think you’ve had problems? I’ve got a mullet Stanford. Meanwhile, where have you been? Living it up in your fancy house in the woods, selfishly hoarding your college money because you only care about yourself,” Stanley accused.

“Selfishly hoarding? I’m raising two kids, I don’t have any money left to hoard. And how can you say _I’m_ selfish after costing me my dream school? I’m giving you a chance to do the first worthwhile thing in your life and all I want is for you to give the slightest bit of consideration before you act. But I suppose that’s too much to ask; you just do whatever you want to do and everyone else’s happiness comes second, doesn’t it?”

“You’re accusing me of not caring about your happiness? You’re the one who left me behind, you jerk. You ruined my life!”

“You ruined your own life!”

And things went swiftly downhill from there.

Over the years there had been a lot of missed chances, and opportunities that Stanford got passed over for because his degree was from a university that wasn’t looked down on so much as actively made fun of in academic circles. And over the years, the blame for each and every one of those problems had been laid squarely at Stanley’s feet. In his more rational moments, Stanford realized that that probably wasn’t entirely fair, but it was easy, so he kept doing it anyway. Add that to the suffocation Stanford had been feeling before Stanley left, like he was being smothered by his twin and by being a twin until he had no identity of his own left, and the suffocation he’d felt after Stanley was gone, as though in his departure he had taken all the air with him and Stanford had been forced to try and breathe in a vacuum, and you had a lot of bad feelings all festering together for nearly a decade. Now they were all bleeding out at once, to the point that Stanford couldn’t even remember half the things he was saying, barely even heard them coming out of his mouth. All he knew was he was angry and for once he wanted Stanley to hurt as badly as he did. And if the things Stanley was saying were any judge, apparently he felt the same way.

Then something Stanford said must have been the last straw for Stanley, because he turned and walked off down the front hall.

“Where are you going?” Stanford demanded, chasing after him.

“To my car. I can’t deal with this right now,” Stan answered.

“You’re leaving?” Ford said, suddenly struck by the very real fear that his brother was about to leave and Stanford wouldn’t see him again for another ten years.

Something of Stanford’s tone must’ve caught Stanley’s ear, because he glanced over his shoulder with a reassuring expression. “I’m just going for a drive to clear my head; I wouldn’t leave without telling those two little gremlins good-bye.”

“You mean like you left me,” Stanford spat, his voice full of venom once again. How stupid to be jealous of his own children. How like Stanford to be that stupid, how like Stanley to bring that stupidity out in him.

“Like _I_ left _you_? You abandoned _me_ , Stanford. You’re the one who stood back and did nothing while Pa kicked me out of the house.”

“And you’re the one who drove off into the night and never came back,” Stanford shot back.

Stanley didn’t have a response to that, he just glared at Stanford for a moment longer before slamming the front door shut. Stanford cringed automatically in anticipation of the noise, only to find that it didn’t seem that loud, relatively speaking. But it wouldn’t, would it, not after he and Stanley had been having a screaming match for the past twenty minutes… While the children were upstairs sleeping.

Dammit.

 

* * *

 

When Mabel woke up it was too loud and too tight.

Mabel didn’t take a nap every day any more, she wasn’t a _baby_. She was five and, and… and almost all the fraction because she was almost six. She was too big to need to nap all the time or anything. But they did have quiet time every day and Mabel liked quiet time because Daddy would take them upstairs and close the curtains in their room and tuck them into bed with a scratchy Daddy kiss on their foreheads. Then he would read to them sometimes or talk to them in soft, whispery voice and it was so warm and cozy and soft that Mabel fell asleep sometimes. Not all the time, but sometimes. And sometimes Dipper fell asleep too, but not as much as Mabel did, and there were two times when Daddy had been really tired too, so instead of reading or talking to them, he put some really quiet pretty piano music on and crawled right into bed with them, and then Mabel and Dipper and Daddy all fell asleep together and those were Mabel’s best times.

But today, even though it was supposed to be quiet time, when Mabel woke up it was really, really loud. And Dipper was hugging onto her really tight, and Mabel hugged him back because that’s what you were ‘apposed to do when someone hugged you. And then Mabel realized why it was so loud and she hugged Dipper back even tighter than Dipper was hugging her. Daddy was _yelling_.

Mabel had never, never heard her Daddy yell before. He didn’t get mad, he got sad sometimes, and he got stern sometimes, but he didn’t get mad. Except now he was mad and he was yelling at Uncle Stan, who was yelling right back. And not just yelling, but yelling like how Mama and Boyfriends used to yell at each other before the Boyfriend left.

“I don’t want Uncle Stan to leave yet,” Mabel said. Even though he scared Dipper earlier, he said it was a accident. And he was really nice and he played with them he got Mabel her pretty new favorite hairclips and he got Dipper his new favorite hat and sometimes he annoyed Daddy but sometimes he made Daddy smile and made him laugh and Mabel really liked him and didn’t want him to leave. Not ever and definitely not yet. “And if he leaves Daddy might get a Girlfriend, and I bet a Girlfriend is just as bad as a Boyfriend.”

 “And Uncle Stan is better than a Boyfriend,” Dipper said.

“Even better than the Good Boyfriend,” Mabel said. Mama only ever had one boyfriend who was good. He had been a long, long time ago, but Dipper and Mabel still remembered him because he would bring them each a piece of chocolate whenever he visited Mama, and the last time he came he brought them each a whole big candy bar and gave them both a hug and said he was sorry, but Mabel didn’t know what for.

“Maybe,” said Dipper. “So what are we supposed to do?”

“I don’t know,” Mabel said. They never had to ask Mama not to get rid of a boyfriend before, ‘cuz the Good Boyfriend had been when Mabel ‘n’ Dipper were too little to know when a Boyfriend was gonna leave, and they never wanted another Boyfriend to stay. Sometimes they weren’t Bad, but even when a Boyfriend was okay, it was still best when it was just Mabel ‘n’ Dipper ‘n’ Mama because then Mama had more time to spend some with Mabel ‘n’ Dipper. And it was second best when Mama had a new Boyfriend, ‘cuz that’s when Mama was happiest and nicest. But Daddy always spent time with them all the time and he was always nice, so they didn’t need Uncle Stan to leave for any of that, and plus Uncle Stan was Good and Mabel didn’t want him to leave anyway.

The only idea Mabel had was to tell Daddy to not make Uncle Stan leave. But Mabel sometimes used to tell Mama all the time when a Boyfriend was Bad and to make him leave, but Mama never ever listened to Mabel when she said that. Mama always said Mabel was just a little kid and she wasn’t smart enough to know, but Mabel did know. She knew they were Bad, but Mama wouldn’t listen and it made Mabel feel all squirmy and bad inside so she had stopped telling Mama when a Boyfriend was Bad. Mabel thought that Daddy would probably listen, ‘cuz Daddy was the best, but she was too scared to tell him. Because if he didn’t listen then Mabel would feel even more squirmy and bad inside than when Mama didn’t listen.

“What do you think we should do?” Mabel asked. Because Mabel was smart with people, but Dipper was the best at coming up with good plans.

“I don’t know,” Dipper said.

Just then they heard the front door slam close, and then footsteps coming up the stairs. Dipper grabbed his book off the table next to the bed, and Mabel got the stuffed pig that Daddy bought just for her and she named Waddles and started playing with him. Daddy never got mad before, but whenever Mama got mad she never wanted Mabel or Dipper to bother her. But when Daddy came in their room he didn’t look happy that Mabel ‘n’ Dipper were being good and playing by themselves so he could go do angry grown-up stuff. He looked sad and worried.

“Did we wake you up?” Daddy asked.

“Nuh-uh. Dipper woke me up, ‘cuz he hugs too tight,” Mabel told him, but even though Mabel said it wasn’t his fault, Daddy looked even sadder.

“Well, I guess quiet time is over either way now,” Daddy said and he was smiling, but Mabel could tell it wasn’t a really real smile. “What would you two like to do this afternoon?”

Mabel looked at Dipper. How were they ‘apposed to stay quiet and not be a new-sense when Daddy was coming up and asking them what they wanted to do?

“Can we watch a movie?” Dipper asked, and Mabel nodded because that was a good idea. ‘Cuz Daddy liked to play with them all the time when Mabel ‘n’ Dipper were doing stuff, ‘cuz he was the best Daddy, but he knew that they could watch a movie all by themselves. And then he could be happy that he took care of them and then go off and do his angry grown-up stuff. And if the angry grown-up stuff took a really long time, then Mabel ‘n’ Dipper knew how to rewind the movie back to the start so they could watch it all over again.

Daddy took them downstairs and set up their movie for them before leaving. But it was okay that he left because Mabel had Dipper and Dipper had Mabel and Daddy had maken sure they were all taken care of before he went to do angry grown-up stuff, even though Mama had never, never done that, ‘cuz Daddy was the best.

So Mabel was so super surprised when Daddy came back a couple minutes later and he had two juice boxes of chocolate milk and a plate of apple slices _with chocolate syrup on them_. And normally they always had snack time after quiet time, but Daddy had been all yelling and mad and stuff, so Mabel didn’t think he’d want to bother today. And then, after he gave Mabel and Dipper each a chocolate milk and put the apple slices on the table for them, he asked if he could join them for the movie. That’s when Mabel realized that ‘cuz Daddy was so smart, way smarter than Mama, Mama even said so, that he must of known that the best way to feel happy again when you were angry or sad was to get lots of cuddles from people that love you. So Mabel cuddled him super hard so Daddy knew that she loved him a lot, and they watched the movie two times and then Mabel ‘n’ Dipper watched it another time and Daddy would of watched with them too, but he had to go make dinner.

And even though it had been scary earlier, Mabel decided today was a good day after all.

 

* * *

 

_“Look, all I’m saying is that you’re the one who’s so super picky about who he lets around his kids. And if your brother made one of them scream in terror, maybe you should cut him loose.”_

_“I’m not saying you’re wrong,” Stanford said. “But I did promise Stanley to give him a week, and it’s only been four days. And neither of us were at our best-“_

“Daddy!”

_Stanford startled and looked around almost automatically. “Did you hear something?”_

_“Nothing. It was probably a figment of your imagination. I mean, we are in your mind,” Bill answered._

_“Right,” Stanford agreed, a little uncertainly. “Well, as I was saying, neither of us were at our best this afternoon, so maybe if we tried talking again tomorrow and tried to let cooler heads prevail-“_

“Daddy, help!”

_“See, there it is again,” Stanford said. “I’m sure I heard something.”_

“Daddy, help; Dipper’s not breathing!”


	8. Chapter Eight

It was late by the time Stan got back to Ford’s place, after the kids’ bedtime. He’d driven around aimlessly fuming for a while, but that had only lasted him an hour or so before he pulled over at some random trailhead, Ford’s parting shot echoing in his head.

_And you’re the one who drove off into the night and never came back._

What was that even supposed to mean? Pa was the one who had kicked him out and told him to never come back. Well, he said Stan could come back after he’d earned a fortune, which Stan had taken as a challenge at the time, but ten years later he realized that the only way a homeless high school drop-out was going to make millions was if he got lucky and won the lottery. And so far that strategy hadn’t exactly been working out for Stan. Ford knew what happened, he’d been right there – been right there and done nothing – while Pa had been kicking him out. Stan _couldn’t_ come back home, so what was Ford’s comment supposed to mean? Had Ford wanted Stan to just come back to him somehow? Like, if Stan had managed to pluck up the nerve one of those times when he’d called Ford up and said, “Hey, it’s your brother; I’m sorry and I miss you,” would Ford have said he forgave Stan and missed him too? Had it always been as easy as that, and had the last ten years of Stan’s life trying to achieve the impossible so maybe his family would forgive him been utterly pointless?

He sat in his car and thought about that for a long time and did not cry. That was the story he was sticking to, and he’d like to see anyone try and prove otherwise.

But even that well eventually ran dry – metaphorical well, there were no waterworks going on here – and Stan just sat in his car until it was late enough that Mason and Mabel should have been put to bed and Ford, with any luck, would have retreated either down to his study or up to his room. Stan wasn’t still angry anymore, but Ford might be, and Stan couldn’t deal with that right now. He just wanted to put it off, at least until morning. So once it was late enough that Stan was pretty sure he could slip back into the house without anyone the wiser, Stan drove home.

No, not home, to Ford’s house. And after this afternoon it might never be home, no matter what Stan wanted. What had possessed him to bring up the science fair anyway? They had been doing just fine tiptoeing around it and pretending it never happened, so why had he opened his big yap? What, had he thought he was going to be able to say he was sorry for accidentally breaking Ford’s gizmo and Ford would forgive him and say sorry for leaving Stan behind and suddenly everything would be alright and automatically go back to the way it used to be? No, he knew exactly what he’d been thinking, and it all amounted to a bunch of sentimental junk that was worth exactly jack and shit.

Stan went in through the side door to the kitchen, hoping to grab a quick bite to eat before going down to the thinking parlor – jeez, only Ford. Only Ford and wealthy little old ladies in fancy Victorian houses – to try and catch some sleep. He started to go for the fridge to look for leftovers, when something on the counter caught his eye. It was a plate full of food, probably dinner from that night, carefully covered in saran wrap. And sitting on top of it was a piece of paper with the words “Uncle Stan” written in childish block letters with a drawing underneath of… it was either Stan riding a unicorn, or… yeah, he was going to go with it being him riding a unicorn. All the other possibilities suggested things about Mabel’s psyche that were far too disturbing to contemplate.

Jeez, those kids. Stan could handle losing Ford again, probably; it would hurt like carving his heart out of his chest with a dull and rusty spoon, but he’d managed for ten years almost, and he could do it again if he had to. But he couldn’t stand the thought of losing Ford and those two little kids at the same time. Mabel had told Stan she _loved_ him last night before she went to bed, and maybe she was just a little kid saying things, but she hadn’t said it any of the nights before that, so Stan thought that maybe she meant it. His sweet and bright little niece had looked inside him and found something good and loveable and what was Stan supposed to do without that? And then Mason, now he was a tough nut to crack. But Stan was getting there, he thought, and he had promised himself that he was going to get that kid to let Stan call him Dipper one of these days, but how was he supposed to do that if he was gone? Being here with the three of them and acting like he could be a part of their family was the best thing that had happened to him at least since before the science fair. He had to do better from now on, because he couldn’t lose this, he _couldn’t_.

He’d been lying on the couch trying to fall asleep for about a half an hour when he thought he heard a noise coming from upstairs. He shrugged it off, but then a minute later he heard it again, and it sounded like… Mabel screaming? Stan sat bolt upright and strained his ears, and sure enough, a minute late he heard her scream, “Daddy, help; Dipper’s not breathing!”

Stan ran upstairs as fast as he could, and arrived outside the kids’ bedroom door at about the same time as a very rumpled Ford who looked like he’d just been pulled out of a deep sleep.

“What’s going on; what’s wrong with Dipper?” Ford asked, rushing into the room and over to Mason, who was curled up in a ball on the bed, sobbing and struggling to breathe in.

“I don’t know! Dipper was having a bad dream and I tried to hug him to make him feel better but he kept getting worser and worser and now he can’t breathe and I don’t know what to do!” Mabel said, with tears streaming down her face and looking utterly terrified. No surprise, since as much as the two of them loved Ford and loved having him, and Stan even, give them attention and help them out, it was pretty clear they were used to being able to take care of each other, and now Mabel didn’t know how to help her brother. Course, neither did Ford, going off of how helpless he was looking. Strange, because he really should know what to do, but maybe he was panicking too. Alright, so it was up to Stan then.

“Ford, I need you to pick Mason up and put him on your lap,” Stan said.

“What? How is that-“

“Ford. Mason is having a panic attack right now. You know that, or you would if you just calm down and think for a second, just like you know I know how to handle this. Now I need you to put him in your lap, since we proved earlier that me picking him up is only going to make things worse, and hold him so he can feel your chest against his back,” Stan said, doing his best to project an air of being calm and in control, even though he on the inside he was probably freaking out just as much as Ford. Ford had only ever had a handful of panic attacks as far as Stan could remember, and it had been a long time since Stan had helped him through one.

Ford shook his head like he was clearing it, then gave a firm nod. “Right. Dipper, I’m going to pick you up now, okay?” Mason nodded fervently, and as soon as Ford had grabbed him he latched his arms around Ford’s neck and buried his face in Ford’s shoulder. Ford held him like that for a minute or two, rubbing a hand up and down his back. “I know, I know, it all seems like too much right now. But your Uncle Stan and I are going to help you, okay? I’m going to sit down on your bed and then I need you to turn around. Can you do that for me?” Mason nodded again, and Ford managed to get himself and Mason arranged like Stan had instructed.

“What can I do, Uncle Stan?” Mabel asked. What _could_ she do? Honestly there was nothing Stan needed from her at the moment, but if he told her there was nothing she could do to help her brother, that would only upset her, and her freaking out was probably only making Mason’s freak out worse.

Stan thought it over for a minute and then told her, “I need you to sit down next to your dad, and hold onto your brother’s hand.”

“Okay,” Mabel said. She grabbed onto Mason’s hand and held on with a white-knuckled grip, but Stan figured it wasn’t a problem since Mason was holding back just as tight.

With her settled, Stan turned back to Mason. “Okay kid, can you feel behind you, your dad’s chest moving as he breathes?” Mason nodded. “Okay, I want you to concentrate on that and trying to match the way he’s breathing, and I’m going to say how to do it too. Breathe in through your nose for three seconds. Now hold it, two, three. Out, two, three. Back in again, two, three.”

But Mason was shaking his head and sobbing again. “I c-c-can’t,” he forced out.

“Hey, don’t stress out about it not being perfect, that’s the opposite of what we’re trying to do here. Besides, you think your Uncle Stan has ever done anything perfect in his life? Just whatever you can do, it’s fine.”

“You’re doing great Dipper,” Ford said. He offered one of his hands to Mason, and the boy grabbed it with his free one and began swiping over Ford’s fingers with his thumb, counting them in time with his breathing, which seemed to help.

Stan kept up his count, and Ford kept murmuring gentle reassurances as he could while keeping pace with his breathing. After a minute Mabel jumped in as well, telling Mason how awesome she thought he was and how much she loved him. It took a few minutes more, but finally Mason’s breathing started to even out and he seemed to be calming down again.

“There you go buddy, that’s better,” Stan said. “That must have been some dream, huh?”

“Did you want to talk about it?” Ford asked, but Mason shook his head no furiously.

“I get it, who wants to talk about their nightmares, right?” Stan said, ignoring the look Ford gave him. “Besides, it’s over, and now you’re here with your dad and your sister and the scariest thing here is your Uncle Stan.” But Mason shook his head again. “What, there something here that’s still scaring you?” Mabel did have that one stuffed bear that was pretty freaky.

“No. You aren’t scary, Uncle Stan” Mason said.

“Well, that’s the nicest thing anyone’s said about me all day,” Stan said jokingly. Well, mostly jokingly.

“Dipper, are you all better now?” Mabel asked, staring at her brother’s face like she was looking for signs of him still panicking.

“I’m okay,” Mason said, and his sister tackled him with a hug which Mason happily returned.

Ford let them have their moment before interrupting with, “Alright children, I think it’s time you both went back to sleep.”

“Daddy?” Mason said hesitantly.

“Yes? Did you want another story before you go back to bed?” Ford said.

“No. Ummm… maybe? But could you maybe stay tonight? Just for tonight?” Mason asked.

“Yeah, like those times when you had a nap with us!” Mabel agreed. “Please Daddy?”

Stan let out a snort of amusement. “You took a nap with the kids? That’s adorable, you sap.” The teasing came without a thought, but as soon as it was out, Stan snapped his mouth shut. Sure he and Ford had technically been getting along okay for the past ten minutes or so, but that was because they both had been too focused on helping Mason out to worry about the fact that the last time they’d talked they’d been having a massive fight. And sure, Stan didn’t want to fight any more, but that didn’t mean that Ford wasn’t still mad. Heck, Stan had never even wanted to fight in the first place, it had just sort of happened, because when had Stan’s best intentions ever done anyone any good?

But Ford gave him a hesitant kind of half smile before saying, in an exaggerated tone, “I’m going to take that as a compliment.”

“You would,” Stan said. Then, deciding to not push his luck, he went to leave. “Goodnight. Have fun trying to all cram into that little bed together.”

“Wait! Uncle Stan you can’t go,” Mabel said. “’Cuz what if Dipper needs you to tell him how to breathe again?”

Honestly, Stan didn’t rate the chances of Mason having a second panic attack tonight as being all that high, but he doubted that would be much comfort to Mabel. So instead he said, “I’m sure your dad can handle it if it happens again. Besides, there is zero chance of me trying to fit into that bed with the rest of you.”

“You can sleep in my bed.” Oh right, there were two beds in this room. Stan had forgotten the other was a bed and not just an elaborate shelf for Mabel’s stuffed animals and a bunch of other random toys. “Pleeeeease stay,” Mabel begged.

Crap, how was Stan supposed to say no to that face? “I…”

“Stay,” Ford added, his voice soft enough that for a minute Stan thought he was imagining things, because, even if this maybe wasn’t quite the right context, that was probably the one thing Stan wanted to hear from his brother more than anything. And if it was hard to say no to Mabel, it was impossible to say it to that.

“Alright. I’ll stay."

 

* * *

 

When Dipper woke up, it must have been really, really early because it was still a little dark outside, and it was summer time so the sun came up super early. But even if it had been so dark that Dipper couldn’t even see even a little bit, he wouldn’t of been scared because he could feel Mabel and Daddy cuddled in bed around him, so he knew he was safe. Then he looked over at Mabel’s bed and saw Uncle Stan laying in it and staring at the ceiling and that felt safe too.

“Morning,” Dipper said, whispering super quiet so he wouldn’t wake up Mabel or Daddy.

Uncle Stan turned and looked at him. “Hey there, kiddo. What’re you doing up this early?”

Dipper shrugged. He was awake because he was awake, that was all. “You’re awake too,” he said.

“Yeah, I didn’t sleep too good last night. Too much stuff in my head. Especially since I normally don’t use it for much of anything,” Uncle Stan said.

Dipper nodded. That happened to him too sometimes, not last night, because last night he’d been so scared that he couldn’t even think about anything except how scared he was, and that made it even more scary, but the night before last night his head felt so full of all kind of thoughts that he thought it might explode, and that made it really hard to go to sleep.

“Hey, what about you; did you sleep okay after what happened last night?” Uncle Stan asked.

“I think so,” Dipper said. After he stopped being so scared he had got really tired and then fallen asleep really quick and then he slept all the way till now and he was still tired so he was probably going to go to sleep again in a couple of minutes and he hadn’t had any nightmares at all that time and he didn’t think he’d have any more between now and when it was really morning because Mabel and Daddy and Uncle Stan were here, so it was too safe for nightmares.

“Good. Glad one of us did. And I don’t know if this played any part in what happened last night, but I’m sorry about yesterday. I promise I won’t pick you up again without letting you know it’s me,” Uncle Stan said.

Dipper frowned, because he didn’t want Uncle Stan to do that anymore like he said he wouldn’t, but when grown-ups said “I promise” that was almost always a lie. “Just don’t yell at Daddy anymore,” Dipper said. Because yelling was way, way scarier than being picked up. Because sometimes being picked up was a bad thing or a really bad thing, but sometimes it was good. Like when Daddy picked up Dipper up and carried him the other day because Dipper’s feet hurt, or when Uncle Stan had taken turns picking up Dipper and Mabel and spinning them round and round so fast their feet were flying up in the air and Daddy pretended to be mad and said, “You’re going to break something,” but he smiled when he said it and laughed a little too. But yelling always, always meant something bad was happening.

“You kids heard that, huh? Look, me and Ford got into a fight a long time ago – I, I might have messed up pretty big time and Ford was being a real jerk about the whole thing – and we never really had a chance to work things out. So we might still fight some until we can. I mean, I don’t want to fight with your dad any more than you want me to, but it might happen anyway. And I’m not going to promise not to yell at him anymore because I don’t know if I could keep that promise,” Uncle Stan said.

Dipper thought about that. Most of the time when a grown-up said “I promise” it was a lie, but Uncle Stan just said he wouldn’t say “I promise” if it wasn’t true and he was Daddy’s twin and Daddy always told them the truth and meant it when he promised. So maybe Uncle Stan meant it too. Dipper liked that better than if Uncle Stan was just saying stuff even though it wasn’t real, but he’d like it even better if Uncle Stan did promise not to yell at Daddy because he knew they weren’t going to fight anymore. “Did you tell Daddy you were sorry?” Dipper asked.

“Tell him I’m sorry?”

“Because you said you did something wrong, and when you do something wrong you’re supposed to say sorry. And if Daddy was being mean to you he should say sorry too and then you won’t have to yell anymore.”

“Heh. Worth a shot I guess,” Uncle Stan said. “Your Ma actually teach you something worthwhile there?”

“No, I learned it from Mister Johnson’s Locality,” Dipper said and Uncle Stan made a bad face. “Are you mad?”

“Not at you,” said Uncle Stan.

Dipper looked at Mabel, but she and Daddy were still sleeping. “At Mama?” Dipper asked, really extra super quiet.

“She didn’t exactly do you two kids any favors.”

Dipper was actually really, really confused about that. Because he thought for a long time that Mama wasn’t good at being a mama, but Mabel always said she was good and Mabel was really smart at people and sometimes Mama did do stuff that was fun, so Dipper didn’t know. And now Daddy and Uncle Stan sometimes said stuff like they thought Mama wasn’t good too, so Dipper really didn’t know. But he knew she couldn’t have been bad all the time because then Mabel would of known she was bad, which meant that Mama had to be good sometimes and sometimes she was bad, except for Dipper didn’t know how to tell which stuff was good and which was bad and that was the kind of stuff that made him think and think and think until his head wanted to explode.

But there was one thing that Mama did that Dipper knew was good. “She took us to come live with Daddy, and Daddy is the best.”

“Yeah, you gremlins lucked out in the dad department, huh?” Uncle Stan agreed.

“And ummm… I also think that Daddy is probably a good brother too,” Dipper said. He knew that being a daddy and being a brother weren’t the same thing, but Daddy was the best, so he probably had to be good at lots of stuff.

Uncle Stan was real quiet for a minute, and then he said, “He is. Part of me is still pissed off – shit, don’t tell him I said that. Or that. That is, part of me might still be mad at him, but he is a good brother most of the time.”

“So you should stay,” Dipper told him.

“What makes you think I’m leaving, kid? I promise you Mason, it’s way too early for your Uncle Stan to be thinking about going anywhere right now but back to sleep.”

That wasn’t what Dipper meant. Dipper meant that he liked it being Dipper and Mabel and Daddy, but he thought he liked it even more better being Dipper and Mabel and Daddy and Uncle Stan. Because Uncle Stan was scary sometimes, but he always said sorry and a lot of times he was fun and played with Dipper and Mabel and he only said “I promise” when it was real and sometimes he made Daddy sad or mad, but other times he made Daddy happy and Mabel didn’t want Uncle Stan to leave and last night when Dipper had been so, so scared that he couldn’t even think or breathe or do anything but be scared and cry, Uncle Stan knew what to do and what to tell Mabel and Daddy to do to make Dipper not be scared anymore and Dipper wanted Uncle Stan to stay for a really long time forever.

But he didn’t know how to say that and Mabel was sleeping so she couldn’t help. So instead he said, “You can call me Dipper if you want. Because Daddy says it’s a family nickname and you’re family too, right?” And family still left sometimes, like Mama had left, but they stayed for a really long time first, so Dipper and Mabel could figure out another plan to keep Uncle Stan from leaving.

Uncle Stan looked really happy, like being Dipper’s family was the best thing he’d ever heard, and that made Dipper feel happy inside too. “That’s right I am.”

Then Dipper yawned super big because he was still tired, and Uncle Stan laughed a little and said, “Looks like you’re the one who needs to go back to sleep.”

Dipper nodded and said, “Goodnight Uncle Stan.” He cuddled up with Mabel and Daddy again and closed his eyes and he felt warm and cozy and safe.

“Goodnight, Dipper,” Uncle Stan said, and that felt safe too.


	9. Chapter Nine

Stan had spent the morning down in the ‘thinking parlor’ keeping to himself. Not because he was hiding from dealing with Ford for the first time without a panicking child to steal the focus since their fight yesterday. He’d been flipping through some of Ford’s nerd magazines because he wanted to. Yeah, that was convincing.

“Uncle Stan?”

Stan nearly jumped a foot in the air at the sudden voice, then put the magazine down and looked up over at his niece, who had somehow come into the room and over to him without him noticing. Really, of the two kids, Stan would not have expected her to be the stealthy one. “Scared me there, kid. What are you, some kind of ninja?”

“What’s a ninja?” Mabel asked.

“Real sneaky fellows that can move around without anyone seeing them or hearing them,” Stan said.

“Oh. Uncle Stan, can you teach me how to tell people how to breathe?” Mabel asked.

“Tell people how to breathe? What’re you talking about?”

“You know, like the last night when Dipper got so scared and he couldn’t breathe no more and you told him and Daddy how to do it right until he could,” Mabel explained.

“Oh, that. I don’t know,” Stan said, eyeing Mabel with exaggerated skepticism. “It’s pretty tough to learn. You think the power of Mabel is up to it?”

“The power of Mabel is up to anything!” Mabel assured him, placing her hands on his knees and leaning in. Stan reached down and picked her up, making sure she could see him coming, and was pleased when she didn’t flinch or freeze or anything this time, just settled herself into his lap like it was her rightful due.

“I guess I can try teaching you then. But what do you want to learn something like that for, anyway?” Stan asked her.

“So when you leave, I can help Dipper after he has a bad dream,” Mabel said matter-of-factly.

“Whoa kid, who said anything about me leaving?” Stan asked. Sure, Ford had said a week when Stan had arrived five days ago, but he’d also said they could discuss it then, and Stan was hoping… well, hoping for stupid things that were never going to happen, especially after their fight yesterday, but Stan had always been the stupid one. Anyway, none of that changed the fact that he hadn’t told the kids that he might not be staying much longer.

“Nobody did, but everybody leaves,” Mabel said. Stan had never really wanted to punch a woman before, but he suddenly found himself wishing that Dipper and Mabel’s ma were here right now, so he could sock her one for what she’d put these little kids through. Though, on the other hand, she’d also finally got the good sense to drop them off with Ford, so maybe she wasn’t complete scum of the earth.

“Listen Mabel, I might not always be here, but I’ll always be there for you, okay? If I leave then first I’ll get you my phone number” – just as soon as he got a phone to have a number on – “and any time you want to talk to me, you ask your dad to phone me up.” He didn’t even begin to have an idea of how he was going to manage to keep that promise, but it’d kill him if he didn’t, so he’d figure something out. The things he did for these kids.

“But what about when Daddy leaves?” Mabel asked, looking down and plucking at Stan’s sleeve.

“That’s never gonna happen,” Stan assured her.

“Yes it is!” Mabel yelled. “Everybody leaves; all the good people and bad people and everybody ‘cept me ‘n Dipper. Even Mama was there forever and ever and then she left. Everybody leaves.”

Crap. What in the world was Stan supposed to say now? He wasn’t equipped to deal with emotionally damaged children. Especially not when he half-thought that Mabel was probably right about everybody leaving; he sure never had anyone who thought he was worth sticking around for. No wonder Ford didn’t want him hanging around these kids. “Well, you and Dipper aren’t going to leave each other, right? So that’s two people that won’t leave.”

“I guess. But everyone else,” said Mabel.

“But you two had to get it from somewhere. And if it wasn’t from your Ma, then it has to be your Dad. He’s not going to leave you, I’d bet a hundred bucks on it. And your Uncle Stan hates losing money, so he wouldn’t ever place a bet if it wasn’t a sure thing.” Except for all those times that his sure things hadn’t exactly panned out that way, but Mabel didn’t know about that and she didn’t need to.

“Would you bet a thousand dollars?” asked Mabel.

“Sure,” Stan said.

“A million dollars?”

“Kid, I don’t have a million dollars,” Stan told her. “But then, I don’t have a thousand dollars either.” Actually, after spending all that money on gas to get up here, he probably didn’t even have a hundred dollars. “So sure, why not, I’ll bet a million dollars that your dad ain’t ever gonna leave you.”

“Would you bet a million billion ga-jillion-“

“Now you’re just making numbers up,” Stan accused, and Mabel grinned at him. But only for a minute, and then she frowned again.

“But how do you know?” 

Stan sighed and scratched the back of his head. “I just do. I mean, I’ve known Ford for a long time, basically since he was born. And maybe I don’t know him as well now as I used to, but I know that if you need him he would never, ever leave… you and your brother.”

 

* * *

 

Ford pressed his back against the wall and tried not to breathe too loud. He’d been sitting with the children in the kitchen getting some work done while the two of them colored earlier when he needed to refer to some other notes of his that he didn’t have on hand. So he left Dipper and Mabel there and went to look in his study for the notes, and when he failed to find them there, headed to the thinking parlor to check for them. He had been anticipating some awkwardness, as Stanley had slipped down in there presumably as soon as he woke up that morning and hadn’t come out since, but what Ford hadn’t anticipated was that apparently once he had left the kitchen, the children had gotten up as well and gone to seek Stan out. And somehow Ford had found himself listening in to Stan and Mabel’s conversation, almost idly at first, but he grew more and more rapt as they continued. Rapt and dumbfounded and emotionally dis-equilibrated.

Stanford had known that it was going to take time for Dipper and Mabel to truly understand that the way their mother had treated them was not the way parents were supposed to treat their children, and the way they had been living was not normal. Not that they’d have an exactly normal life with him either, but it would be an acceptable one at least. He hoped. But he hadn’t been aware that they thought that he might abandon them, that _Mabel_ , who was so much more trusting and optimistic than her brother, thought that.

And then there was Stan. Ford wasn’t really surprised that Stan handled talking Mabel through her fear with a good deal of grace – more than Ford thought that he might have managed in the same situation. Disagreements about methods aside, Stan really was good with the children. Stanford hadn’t even really been all that mad about Stanley picking Dipper up yesterday. Annoyed certainly, since he though Stanley ought to know better than that, and possibly still a bit out of his wits terrified from Dipper’s scream, but not truly mad, not about that. It was just that somehow all the other things Stanford was feeling mad and upset and hurt about had somehow leaked out of him at that moment instead and Stanley… well, as Stanford had been saying to Bill last night, neither he nor Stanley had been at their best yesterday afternoon.

But what was giving Ford pause at the moment wasn’t that Stan was doing well with Mabel or what he was saying; it was the way he said it. _I know that if you need him he would never, ever leave… you and your brother._ A part of Stanford wanted to object – just who had abandoned who here? – but a larger part of him wondered if the facts of the situation, which were of the utmost important when it came to his work, and he had always thought to be of the utmost importance just in general, actually weren’t what mattered here. Maybe as long as Stan _felt_ like he had been abandoned, then that’s what was important. Maybe for the entire time Stanford had been waiting for Stanley to get over himself and come back, Stan had been waiting for Ford to reach out and tell him it was okay to come home. Maybe they were both idiots.

“Daddy, what are you doing?”

Ford started, and then looked down at Dipper, who apparently hadn’t been standing quietly in the room with Stan and Mabel after all. Ford was so unprepared to see Dipper there that he ended up answering his son’s question, quite honestly, with, “I don’t think I really know anymore.”

Dipper scrunched his nose up in confusion, and to be fair it must have been a very odd thing for a child to have an adult say to them, especially as Dipper and Mabel seemed half-convinced that their dad knew _everything_. But then Dipper expression cleared and he grabbed hold of Ford’s hand. “C’mon. If you don’t know, then we can ask Mabel and Uncle Stan and they can help.”

Huh. Well, maybe he could.

 

* * *

 

After tucking the children into bed for the evening, Stanford found himself hesitating at the top of the stairs. He gave it a moment, then shook himself and headed down. This was stupid. They had been getting along fine today, once Stan had been pulled out of the thinking parlor. Sure, they’d had Dipper and Mabel as buffer, but Ford thought they both felt a bit guilty over their screaming match yesterday, he certainly did, so the likelihood of a repeat performance seemed low. Of course, if you asked him two days ago, he would have said they never would get into a fight like that in the first place, and if you asked him eleven years ago…

No, stop. None of that mattered because they were both adults now, and yes they had both made a mistake yesterday in getting so emotional, and so loud in their emotion, but they had learned from it and were going to move past it. It was going to be fine. Right.

When Ford got downstairs, Stan was sitting in front of the TV, watching one of the local channels. Ford wasn’t sure which, but from what he had seen all of them were terrible, so he didn’t feel too bad for interrupting. Plus he considered it a good sign that Stan was here and hadn’t retreated down to his room. Ford assumed that meant Stan was willing to have a conversation with Ford, or at the very least, was resigned to the necessity of it.

“I noticed that you were calling Dipper by his nickname today,” Ford said, figuring that talking about the children was a safe opening gambit.

“He said I could,” Stan said back somewhat defensively. So maybe not so safe.

“I wasn’t accusing you of anything. I –” Ford bit his words off, then forced himself to take a deep breath and slowly let it out. “I was only making an observation. Obviously Dipper didn’t have a problem with it, which is a good sign. I think it means he trusts you now, or is on his way to it.”

Stan smiled a little, and Ford mentally congratulated himself for getting things back on track. He, _they_ could do this. “Yeah kid must have woken up at around five, five-thirty this morning and we talked a bit before he fell back asleep. He said that you said Dipper was his family nickname and since I was family it was okay if I used it.” And Stan looked so happy about that, being included in their family. Ford had forgotten how much family meant to Stan, or maybe he’d just assumed that Stan had changed and it didn’t matter all that much to him anymore. Obviously it still did though.

It was funny, because in some ways Stan was very different from the person he’d been ten years ago, but in a lot of ways he was still the same. The years had changed him, but not in any of the ways Ford had been expecting. Well, not in most of the ways. And that was a good thing.

“You know, he said something else too,” Stan said, his hands fidgeting against his pant legs. “He asked me to stay. I played it off, because I know that ain’t been decided that, but… well he asked me to.”

“From what Mabel was saying to you earlier, she didn’t seem too keen on the idea of you leaving either,” Ford said. Stan gave him a quizzical look and Ford clarified. “When she was talking to you in the thinking parlor. I may have been outside the door listening to the two of you. For, uh, a while.” Ford cleared his throat.

“Well that’s not weird and creepy,” Stan said sarcastically.

Ford couldn’t exactly argue with Stan’s point there, so instead he moved on to what was really the crux of what they were both getting at. “I wouldn’t want you to get a job; helping me to take care of the children would be your full-time responsibility. I know I can’t really support four people on the money I get from the university, but I do have a large pile of inventions down in the basement. The world probably isn’t ready for most of them, but there’s got to be a good handful’s worth of patents in all that that I could sell. From there… I don’t know, we can figure something out. If you wanted to stay, that is.”

“If I wanted to stay? I already told you I did back when I first got here, didn’t I? What, did you think I was going to up and change my mind and run out on you?” Stan asked, his tone implying that such thoughts would be ridiculous.

“It wouldn’t be the first time.” The words came out of Stanford’s mouth without a thought, then he immediately winced. He wasn’t meant to sound bitter or like he was taking a shot at Stan, even if it was a valid counterpoint from his perspective. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t want to –”

“Yeah, I don’t want to fight either,” Stan said. “But you did say it, so you mind explaining just what the hell you meant? I ain’t mad, I just don’t get it. I mean, you were there when Pa kicked me out, Ford; you know I didn’t really have a choice in the matter.”

“Well, yes, I know you had to leave that night; there’s no talking to Pa when he gets in a temper like that. But you didn’t have to stay away forever. You could have gone to stay with a friend or Shermie for a few days and come back after things died down a bit. Staying away was your choice.” The fact that Stanley hadn’t come back always seemed to Stanford to be proof that his brother wasn’t the least bit sorry for the way he had, well maybe not _ruined_ , but he had certainly completely derailed Stanford’s life.

“But you heard Pa, he said I wasn’t welcome back until I made a fortune to make for the one I lost you. Hell, he had a duffle bag packed and ready to go for me. You really think I had slunk back home with my tail between my legs, he would have invited me in with open arms?” Stan said.

“Maybe not with open arms,” Ford conceded. “But we were seventeen and hadn’t even finished high school. He would have had to let you come home.” Though, thinking about it, Ford couldn’t ever once remember their father expressing or even implying any sort of regret or remorse for kicking Stan out. If anything he’d only doubled down on his conviction over time. “Wouldn’t he?”

“Shit, I don’t know,” Stan said and Ford couldn’t find it in himself to castigate Stan for swearing. “I was sure he wouldn’t, but I thought you didn’t want me coming back either, and I guess that was wrong.”

“I don’t know that I did. I just assumed you would, but then you didn’t and I… Well, that’s in the past, and it doesn’t matter anymore. What matters is I do want you here now, if you still want to be here. We can figure out the rest as we go.”

Stan smiled at Ford hesitantly and Ford returned it. “Sounds like a plan to me.”

“I don’t know that I call it a plan,” For said. “Maybe the start of one, or an outline, but not really a plan.”

Stan waved him off. “Whatever. I always did better job when I was winging it.”

Ford rolled his eyes and said, “Stan, you always do terrible when you wing it. We got into more trouble…”

“Eh, it’ll be fine,” Stan said dismissively.

“Yeah,” Ford agreed. “I really think it will be.”


	10. Chapter Ten

_Stanford opened his eyes to the infinite starry cosmos, and felt like he could finally breathe again._

_It had been a month and a half since the night when Dipper had had a panic attack, since Ford had wrenched himself away from his dream with Bill to go tend to his children. It had been a month and a half since Ford had seen Bill._

_He had gone longer between visits from his muse before, and it had never worried him previously. Bill was a celestial being, for lack of a better term for it, and whatever time he could spare Stanford considered a gift. It would be unspeakably greedy to ask for more. But that was before Bill had started talking about leaving. He was going to abandon Stanford and it would be all his own fault because he hadn’t worked hard enough. Stanford had started to wonder if that night had been the last straw, if leaving in the middle his conversation with Bill was the final proof that his focus wasn’t good enough._

_He didn’t regret making the decision if it were. Ford had promised Dipper and Mabel he would protect them from now on. Caring for children fell outside of Ford’s natural skill set, and he would never be great at it, but he still wanted to be a good parent, or at the very least a better parent than Steph had been. Even with that extremely low bar to clear, he still probably would have tripped over it had he ignored Mabel shrieking in terror that Dipper wasn’t breathing._

_So he didn’t regret making the decision, despite feeling fairly useless in the event since Stan was really the one who had helped Dipper through his panic attack and they would have all managed just fine without Ford. He just wished he had known it was a decision he was making when he made it. He just wished he had some sort of sign that Bill really wasn’t coming back, so Stanford didn’t spend the rest of his life waiting._

_Now here was his sign, and if Stanford were very lucky, Bill might yet decide to stay._

_“Hey there smart guy,” Bill said, casually, easily, like it were any other normal visit, and Stanford wasn’t hanging on tenterhooks waiting to see if Bill were coming to say goodbye._

_“Hello. It’s… been a while,” Stanford said, not quite able to ask the question._

_“I guess so,” Bill said. “Wait, you weren’t worried that I’d left, were you?”_

_“The thought may have crossed my mind,” Stanford admitted, feeling acutely embarrassed for ever having thought it now. It had seemed such a reasonable possibility, but the way Bill dismissed it out of hand like it was a ridiculous notion had Stanford second-guessing himself._

_“Way to be melodramatic, Sixer. Nah, I haven’t left yet, and good thing too, since it looks like things are finally coming together. Who would have ever thought Stanley would be so good with kids? You made a good call bringing him in and letting him take point with your two.”_

_It hadn’t actually been Stanford’s idea to bring Stanley in, it had been Ma’s, but Ford would readily admit it had been a good one. But… “I wouldn’t say I’m letting him take point. Certainly he’s been a great help, but we’ve both been working together as a team to take care of the kids. If anything… well, they still are_ my _kids.”_

_“Of course they’re your kids and you get final say, make all the big decisions, yadda, yadda, yadda,” Bill said. “My point is the two of you are a team: he’s the one that’s good with kids, and you’re the genius who’s going to change the world. It’s good that both of you are focusing on what you’re good at. And speaking of focus, yours is looking way better than it was. Not all the way to where it was to start with, but much better.”_

_“That’s great. I really have been trying harder lately,” Stanford said, distracted enough by the praise that he was able to put his discomfort about Bill’s assessment of his parenting role and abilities out of his mind._

_“I can tell. And I’ve got just the thing to help really push that focus of yours over the edge. A project for you.”_

_“Really? What’s that?”_

_Bill’s eye crinkled in a mouthless smile. “Let’s talk about your Grand Unified Theory of Weirdness.”_

 

* * *

 

Ford woke to the sunlight streaming through his window, with renewed energy and inspiration. He practically jumped out of bed and hummed to himself as he got ready. The children weren’t in their room when he checked, but he wasn’t worried about it. Normally he was the one who got them up and ready in the morning before the three of them went downstairs to have breakfast with Stan, but Ford had slept in unusually late this morning. Presumably when Stan had come down from his new permanent attic bedroom that morning, he had noticed that Ford, Dipper, and Mabel were all still asleep, and had gotten the children up himself.

That assumption was born out when he came down to the kitchen and found Dipper and Mabel sitting in their seats and Stan at the stove cooking.

“Good morning all,” Ford said cheerily as he came in the room and sat down at the table as well.

The others wished him a good morning back, and Mabel followed it with, “Guess what Daddy? Uncle Stan is making us pancakes with chocolate syrup and powdered sugar and whipped cream on top for breakfast!”

“Really?” Ford asked, amused. Normally he might have something to say about how extraordinarily unhealthy that sounded, but not today.

“Yeah, well that sounds like a lot of sugar even for me, but the kids insisted it was what they wanted,” Stan said coming over to place a plate in front of Mabel, piled high with pancakes exactly to her specifications.

“Nuh-uh. Uncle Stan I don’t want any powdered sugar on mine,” Dipper said.

“Yeah, I heard you the first time kid, don’t worry. One plate of pancakes with chocolate syrup and whipped cream only coming up,” Stan said. “What about you Ford, you want any pancakes while I’m at it?”

“I’ll have three, thank you,” Ford said. He laughed a bit as he watched Mabel’s crossed-eyed attempts to lick whipped cream off her nose.

“You sure seem like you’re in a good mood this morning, not to mention you slept in pretty late. You have a good dream or something?” Stan asked.

“I hardly think I need to have had a good dream to be in a good mood today, but as it happens I had an excellent dream last night and now I have a fresh burst of inspiration for my work.” The Grand Unified Theory of Weirdness wasn’t about a common behavior, it was about a common _history_ , a history in another weirdness dimension. Once Ford found a way to access that dimension he would be able to prove his Grand Theory, he would change the world, and as an added bonus he would be able to make enough money off his discovery that he wouldn’t have to worry about it anymore.

“You had an excellent dream about work? That’s it kids, I’m calling it: your dad’s crazy. We’ll probably have to take you two gremlins in to the doctor to get tested too,” Stan said, eliciting giggles from Dipper and Mabel.

Ford rolled his eyes. “Yes Stan, you’re the sane one here. Unfortunately the doctor’s visit will have to wait until tomorrow, since I already have plans for today.”

“But not about your work stuff, right?” Dipper said, anxiously.

“Of course not. My plans are with a pair of freshly-turned six year olds. Ah, I haven’t actually said it yet this morning have I?” Ford grinned at his two children, who were both grinning hugely back. “Happy Birthday.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel a little bad that after this long hiatus I came back with a really short chapter. In my defense, writing Bill in this AU makes me feel really slimy and gross. He is not a nice person.
> 
> You may also note that I've added a total chapter count to this story. That count is not gospel, please don't treat it as such. But I do have a general outline of where this story is going and all the major beats I'm going to hit now, so I thought I'd give you guys a general idea of where we're at. About a third of the way in... Oh boy.


	11. Chapter Eleven

Mabel woke up ‘cause someone was shaking her shoulder. That was weird because Daddy always woke Mabel ‘n’ Dipper up by saying their names, not by shaking them. But even though it was weird, Mabel wasn’t scared at all, ‘cause she could tell Dipper was right there and the room smelled clean and the blankets were warm and the bed was soft and everything was really nice and safe ‘cause it was Daddy’s house where everything was always nice and safe. She opened her eyes and saw she was right that it wasn’t scary, ‘cause the person waking them up was just Uncle Stan.

“Where’s Daddy?” Dipper asked, and it was a good question. Even though it was okay that it was Uncle Stan waking them up it was still weird ‘cause normally Daddy was always the one who woke them up.

“Still sleeping, believe it or not,” Uncle Stan said.

“But Daddy never sleeps past when we do,” Dipper said.

“Yeah, I know. If I hadn’t seen him doing it myself, I wouldn’t believe he slept at all, just got energy from being around books and test tubes and stuff, like some kind of weird nerdy plant,” Uncle Stan said. Mabel laughed ‘cause even though she didn’t really understand what he was saying, when he said it sounded funny. “I figure if he’s tired enough to actually sleep in, then we’ll let him. For a little while at least, but if he’s still asleep after we finish breakfast, I’m taking you kids in his room and you can jump on his bed until he wakes up.”

“But Mama never likes it when we wake her up,” Mabel said. Mama slept a lot, a lot, a lot, ‘cause of her smelly grown up drink and her medicine, and sometimes Mabel ‘n’ Dipper had to wake her up, but she usually always got mad when they did that. And Daddy had never been mad at them before and Mabel never, never wanted to make him be.

“Yeah well, your ma ain’t here and I’m telling you that you and your brother can wake me or your dad up whenever you want us, okay? Besides, he can’t get mad at you today; it’s your birthday.”

Mabel gasped. “Uncle Stan, it’s our birthday!”

“I know. I just said that,” Uncle Stan said and he ruffled Mabel’s hair. Mabel didn’t like it when anyone touched her hair, ‘cept it was okay when Uncle Stan did it ‘cause Uncle Stan was Good and also he was really good at brushing hair. “Happy Birthday you two. Now come on, let’s go get you both some birthday breakfast.”

They had a really yummy breakfast with pancakes and chocolate syrup and powdered sugar and whipped cream. Daddy woke up all by himself and came downstairs in time to have pancakes with them too and they all had breakfast together like they did every morning. ‘Cept usually at breakfast Uncle Stan would talk about what Uncle Stan ‘n’ Mabel ‘n’ Dipper were gonna do from breakfast time until quiet time while Daddy was working ‘cept on Sundays because Daddy didn’t work on Sundays. But today wasn’t Sunday, and Daddy wasn’t going to work anyway ‘cause it was Mabel ‘n’ Dipper’s birthday.

Daddy said they were going to spend the whole day together, all four of them, and they would do whatever Mabel ‘n’ Dipper wanted to do all day. But first they were going to go to the mall so Mabel ‘n’ Dipper could pick out two whole presents _each,_ one from Daddy and one from Uncle Stan. And they both had a whole ‘nother coming in the mail from their grandma. That was more presents than Mabel had ever gotten in her life, and she was so excited.

When they got to the mall they were walking to the toy store, but Dipper saw the book store first and he said he wanted to go in there. So they did, and at first they were looking at picture books, and Dipper and Daddy took turns reading them, and that was fun. But then they started looking at other books with lots and lots of words and only a little pictures and other books made for learning with _numbers_ and stuff, and that was really boring.

Mabel decided to go look for Uncle Stan instead. She found him up at the front of the store looking at magazines. She walked up to him and pulled on his shirt. “Uncle Stan, I’m bored.”

Uncle Stan jumped a little bit and then looked at her. “Sweet Moses kid. How are you always the stealthy one?”

“I dunno. ‘Cause I’m a ninja,” Mabel said. “Uncle Stan, I’m _bored_.”

“You mentioned,” Uncle Stan said and he puted his magazine back on the shelf. “Can’t say I blame you. Did you want to go ahead to the toy store and tell those two nerds they can meet us there when they’re done with their books?”

“No, I want to go look at the buttons,” Mabel told him.

“Buttons?”

“I saw them in the store across the street, but Dipper saw the book store first, and I like the book store too, but now I’m bored and I want to go look at the buttons some more.”

“Across the street? You mean the store across the hall?” Uncle Stan asked.

“Um… yes,” Mabel said. “Can we go?”

“Sure thing, sweetie. We just gotta check in with Ford first,” said Uncle Stan.

They went and told Daddy where they were gonna be and Daddy said it was okay and he and Dipper were gonna stay in the book store. Then Uncle Stan and Mabel left the store so they could go to the store with the buttons. Mabel grabbed Uncle Stan’s hand ‘cause even though Uncle Stan said it was a hall, and it was inside like a hall, it was so big Mabel thought it looked like the street of the mall, and you were supposed to hold hands when you crossed the street. Plus Mabel liked to hold Uncle Stan’s hand anyway.

“Oh, it’s a craft store,” Uncle Stan said when he saw the store with the buttons. “Yeah, I’m bettin’ that’s gonna be right up your alley.”

When they got close to the other store, Mabel stared running and she dragged Uncle Stan with her right up to the window. There were so, so many buttons! And they were all diff’rent colors and sizes and some of ‘em were even diff’rent _shapes_ and they were all so pretty. Mabel looked at them through the window for a long time, and then Uncle Stan said, “You know if we go inside, you could probably hold the buttons too.”

Mabel’s eyes went really big, and she runned inside the store. Then she forgot all about the buttons because there was this lady, and Mabel was pretty sure she was doin’ magic. She had these two big long metal sticks like magic wands and she was putting together like click, clack. And when she put her wands together like click, clack it made the yarn go from a long string to all staying together.

Mabel went up to the lady, but she stayed a little away ‘cause the lady looked Good, but if she was doing magic then maybe she was a witch and lots of witches were Bad. Mabel didn’t want to be too close so the lady could grab her. “What are you doing?”

“I’m knitting,” the lady said. “Have you never seen anyone knitting before?”

“Nuh-uh,” Mabel said and she shook her head. She’d never ever seen anything like this before. “Is it magic?”

The lady laughed. It was a really nice laugh, and Mabel decided she probably was Good even if she was a witch. Or maybe she was a sorce-ress. “No it’s not magic, even if it seems that way sometimes. What I’m doing is using these knitting needles here to knot the yarn together in a particular way. Then I do it over and over again and eventually this is going to be a sweater.”

Mabel gasped. “You know how ta make a sweater?” Sweaters were Mabel most favorite clothes of all, ‘cause they were warm and soft and safe like a hug.

“I do. Did you want to help me make this one?” the lady asked. Mabel nodded her head really hard ‘cause she really wanted to help. The lady laughed again and said, “Okay then. If you want to climb up in my lap, I’ll show you how to do it.”

Mabel stepped back and back and right into Uncle Stan. She looked up at him and he smiled at her. “Go on if you want.”

“Um…” Mabel said.

Uncle Stan stopped smiling and looked at her like he was worried. “You don’t have to. We can go look at the buttons some more instead. Whatever you want, sweetie.”

“Um…” Mabel said again. She looked at the buttons and then back at the lady. The buttons were really pretty and Mabel did want to look at them, but Mabel liked sweaters even more than she liked buttons. Mabel thought the lady was a Good witch so it was maybe okay to get too close to her and in her lap. And Uncle Stan said it was okay and Uncle Stan was smart at people too like Mabel was. Also Uncle Stan was really tough and he was teaching Mabel ‘n’ Dipper how ta box and if this lady was actually a Bad witch then Uncle Stan could punch her and make her go away. “I wanna make a sweater.”

Mabel walked to the lady. Even when Mabel got real close the lady didn’t try to grab her. She just let Mabel climb up in her lap all by herself and that was Good. Then when Mabel was up in her lap, the lady showed her how to hold the needles and how to put them together and apart again. At first it was hard ‘cause the needles were really long, but they were really small too and they didn’t want to go how Mabel told them to go. But the lady kept holding the needles too and she helped Mabel make the needles do what they were ‘apposed to do. Click. Clack. Click. Clack. They kept doing it over and over and over again and again and Mabel started to feel how it went good enough to go even faster. Click, clack. Click, clack. Click, clack, click, clack, click, clack.

“You’re really good at this. Are you sure you’ve never done any knitting before?” the lady asked.

“Nuh-uh, never,” Mabel told her.

“Then you must be a natural,” the lady said.

“That’s pretty impressive, kid,” Uncle Stan said.

Mabel smiled at him and said, “Thank you, Uncle Stan!” Uncle Stan was always, always saying that Mabel ‘n’ Dipper were impressive. Even though he said it lots and lots of times, it made Mabel feel happy and warm inside every time.

“You know we have some beginner instruction books in the shop here. I bet if you got one of those and maybe got you mom to help you, you’d be making sweaters all by yourself in no time,” the lady said.

That made Mabel feel squirmy and bad inside. ‘Cause Mama was gone and she couldn’t help Mabel with nothing no more, but also ‘cause Mabel didn’t think Mama woulda helped her even if she wasn’t gone. Maybe Mama woulda helped one time or two times, but Mabel thought knitting was something you had ta practice lots and lots of times to be super good and make sweaters like this lady.

Then Mabel had an idea. “Uncle Stan, will you help me learn?”

Uncle Stan looked at her like he was all surprised. “You want me to help?”

“Uh-huh!” Mabel said. “’Cause you help me ‘n’ Dipper learn lots of thing. And also I think you’re really good at making things, so I bet you’re gonna be a natural at making sweaters too. I bet a million jillion dollars.”

“Thanks,” Uncle Stan said. “No way that’s a safe bet, but thanks. I guess if you’ve got that much money on the line,s I got no choice but to help you learn. We just gotta check in with your dad before we buy a knitting starter kit or whatever.”

“Let’s go ask him right now,” Mabel said. She got down off the lady’s lap super quick, then she grabbed Uncle Stan’s hand and tried to pull him out and to the book store.

Uncle Stan laughed. “Calm down. This stuff ain’t gonna disappear or anything.” But even though he said that he didn’t sound mad or pull his hand away or grab her and make her stop. Uncle Stan just came right with her all the way across the mall street and back to the book store, ‘cause Uncle Stan was the best.

 

* * *

 

“Okay, now we just need to pick out which picture book you want, and we’ll be all set,” Ford said. They had been in the bookstore much longer than he had expected them to be, but Dipper had inherited his father’s love of books. In fact, Dipper had been so distressed at the idea of trying to pick just one book for his birthday present – he had already decided that he wanted to save his second present for something from the toy store – that Ford had finally said they could get a set of books as one present: one picture book, one chapter book, and one workbook.

Dipper nodded and bit his lip as he looked down to the three picture books he was still considering. Ford was getting the feeling that they might still be a while yet. He was glad Stan had been here to take Mabel on to the next store when she had started to get bored. He was glad that Mabel was willing to go to the next store and Dipper had been willing to let her go and wasn’t showing any signs of anxiety at her absence. Ford’s initial worries about their possible dependency on each other were continually being proved unfounded.

“I think Mabel liked this one best,” Dipper said, pointing at the book about mermaids. And then one of them would go and do something like that and Ford would begin to worry all over again.

“I think she did,” Ford agreed. “But Dipper, you know this is your birthday present, right? It’s very nice of you to think about you sister would like, but in this case I want you to get what you would like.”

“I like all of them. I don’t know which one I want, so I want the one Mabel wants.” Dipper frowned in thought, and Ford waited patiently while Dipper figured out how to express himself. “It’s better if we both like it. That’s the one I want.”

“Ah. I see, that makes perfect sense. We’ll get that one then.” Ford picked the book up and placed it on his lap with the other two. He looked back up at his son and smiled softly. “You’re a good brother, you know that? I’m very proud of you.”

Dipper smiled back and ducked his head. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Ford replied, patting him on top of the head. He grabbed Dipper’s books and stood up. “Now let’s go get these for you.”

“Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!” Ford turned his head, but he wasn’t unduly alarmed. He was well acquainted with Mabel’s shrieks of glee by now. She was running through the store toward Dipper and him, dragging an amused looking Stan in her wake. “Daddy, Uncle Stan is going to teach me how ta knit.”

“He is?” Ford asked. He looked up at his brother. “You are?”

“Turns out the store with the buttons was a craft store.” Of course, that made sense. “The woman working in there was knitting and now Mabel wants to get some stuff so she can learn how to too, and she asked me to help,” Stan explained.

“That sounds great,” Ford said. Then he blinked as he realized something very important: neither Stan nor Mabel were carrying any shopping bags. “Where is Mabel’s new knitting stuff?”

“The witch at the store said she was gonna get it all ready for us when we was leaving so we can go back and get it,” Mabel said.

Ford looked at Stan and mouthed “witch?” Stan shrugged. Oh well, Mabel had a very active imagination and she loved to share. Ford was sure he’d hear the whole story soon enough. That did still leave one question though.

“Why did you come back over here before you bought it? Now you’re just going to have to go back over there again. Oh, did you need money?” Ford reached for his wallet, trying to be as casual about it as possible. Stan was unaccountably… squirrelly about accepting money from Ford. Ford couldn’t understand it: Stan was essentially working for Ford by taking care of the children, not to mention Stan had started doing all the chores and errands around the house that Ford tended to let slide, so of course Ford would be paying him in at least an unofficial capacity. Certainly Ford could respect the idea of family helps family, but there had to be limits to that. Shermie had never paid Ma to watch his son, but Shermie had also never laid down the explicit expectation that watching his son would be Ma’s fulltime job. Stan watched the kids all day while Ford worked, and Ford made sure Stan had enough money to pay for things. It shouldn’t be difficult.

“I’m fine for money,” Stan bit out. Ford let his hand fall and sighed inwardly. Really he needed to do something about that. “No we were just, you know, checking in first.”

There was something about how Stan said that, Ford couldn’t say what it was, the slope of Stan’s shoulders, the tone of his voice, the way he wouldn’t quite meet Ford’s eyes, something, that made Ford feel unsettled. Suddenly he was taken back to a conversation they’d had… had it really only been a month and a half ago? It felt like something from an entirely different lifetime. Dipper and Mabel had run to the mirror in the bathroom to admire the stickers Stan had got them and the hat and the barrettes – the same hat and barrettes they were wearing today, that they had worn every day since then. Then Ford had turned to Stan and told him he had to ask before he did things with the kids, anything, like he didn’t trust his brother. At the time he hadn’t. But Ford hadn’t realized…

Stan always asked first, always checked in. Every morning he gave Ford the summary of what he was going to do with the kids that day, and Ford had just assumed he was sharing to share, because he thought Ford would want to know. Ford hadn’t realized that Stan was asking first like Ford had told him to. Hadn’t realized that Stan was still taking that request Ford had almost forgotten about so seriously. Hadn’t realized that maybe this whole time Stan had been tiptoeing around waiting to be told what he was saying or doing was wrong.

“That’s fine. Of course it’s fine,” Ford said. He licked his lips. “Stan, I… I still want to know,” – of course he wanted to know, they were his kids, this was his family, he always wanted to know – “and the big stuff” – Ford couldn’t even begin to think what the big stuff might be at the moment, but he knew it existed, things that needed to be discussed and considered before any decision was made – “but for the rest of it, you don’t have to ask first. I trust you.”

Ford watched Stan, saw his hand tighten around Mabel’s, saw his eyes blink just a little too rapidly, saw his throat bob in a slow swallow. “I… Thanks, Sixer.”

Stan had called him that before since he’d shown up again, he must have, but this time Ford was struck with a sudden feeling of wrongness. Sixer was Stan’s nickname for Ford, just Stan’s ever since the two of them had been children, and yet Ford had been letting Bill call him that all the while.

He shook the feeling off. It was only a nickname. “Anytime, Lee.”

Stan gave an exaggerated shudder and sound of disgust, breaking the seriousness of the moment. “Don’t call me that. No one’s called me that since we were six.” Stan reached down and scooped Mabel up in his arms. “Come on sweetie, let’s get out of here before your dad gets anymore sappy and ends up turning into a tree.”

“That can happen?” Ford heard Mabel ask as the two of them walked out of the store.

Ford just smiled. Because through all of it, the fake disgust and shudders and turning and leaving, Stan had been grinning.


	12. Chapter Twelve

Greasy’s Diner wasn’t exactly the kind of place Stan would have picked for a birthday dinner, but it was what the kids wanted, so that’s where they went. And hey, Stan wasn’t exactly complaining about getting a chance to flirt with that good-looking waitress some. Though they actually hadn’t seen much of Susan since they’d gotten here. She’d sat them down, took their orders, and chatted with the kids for bit about their birthday, then made herself scarce. Maybe she was on a long break or something. Ah well, whatever. It had been a good day, and Stan was enjoying himself regardless.

“And they lived happily ever after,” Mabel concluded.

“That sure is the plot to the movie we just saw,” Stan agreed. Though happily ever after was a bit of a stretch if you asked him.

“Does that mean the whole movie was your favorite part?” Ford said.

“Yes,” Mabel agreed with a decisive nod.

“What about you, Dipper? What was your favorite part of the movie?” Ford asked.

“I liked the beginning where they were playing together as friends,” Dipper said.

“Oh, I changed my mind. My favorite, favorite part was then end when they protected each other from the bear and the mean hunter man,” Mabel said.

“I didn’t like the end end part, after they protected each other,” Dipper said. “Where they had to go away forever and couldn’t be friends anymore.”

“I know it can be sad when people leave,” Ford said slowly, “but sometimes they do it because that’s what’s best for everyone. That doesn’t mean they can’t still care about each other. In their own way.”

“Nah, the kid’s right; it was a terrible ending.” It was possible Stan had gotten a little too invested in the lives of these cartoon animals. And that was maybe because some of it might have hit just a little too close to home.

Ford made a sorta annoyed sound, but he didn’t get a chance to say anything before a loud shout came echoing from the other side of the diner. Stan glanced over his shoulder and saw the back of a big bear of a man standing in his seat and screaming at some woman, probably his wife. The woman was mostly blocked from where Stan was sitting, but he could just see the edge of her from around the side of the man, enough to get an idea of her expression. If looks could kill.

Something pressed up against Stan’s side. He turned away from the shouting match to see Dipper, who had scooted down the bench seat until he was right up next to Stan. “I don’t like yelling.”

“I know you don’t, kid,” Stan said. He put his arm around Dipper, and Dipper snuggled into the cocoon of Stan’s body and grabbed on tight to his hand. Stan had noticed Dipper liked to count Ford’s fingers when he was stressing out. Stan didn’t have any more fingers than anyone else, but he didn’t mind Dipper counting them if that’s what helped.

The woman across the diner snapped something vicious back at the man and Stan winced, reflexively covering certain sensitive parts of his anatomy. “Just be glad you can’t understand what they’re saying.”

“You speak Spanish?” Ford asked. He had Mabel snuggled up to his side like Dipper was to Stan’s, but even chances as to whether that was because the yelling was freaking her out too, or if she had decided she was in the mood for a cuddle.

“More or less. Better than I speak anything besides English anyway.”

“How many languages are you fluent in?”

“According to Mrs. Jensen back in high school I ain’t even fluent in English,” Stan joked.

“Seriously, Stanley.”

“Okay, seriously.” Stan didn’t know why it mattered what languages he could speak, but at least it was a distraction from the fight going on behind him. “Like I said I know Spanish best, but I could get through a conversation in Portuguese if I had to. I know some Italian and I can fake like I know French pretty convincingly. Then I know a handful of words in Russian, Chinese, Korean, Arabic, German, and maybe a word or two of Tagalog. I think that’s it. Oh, and I guess some of that Yiddish Ma taught us is probably still rattling around in here somewhere.”

Ford looked at him for a second wit blatant surprise written on his face. “That’s impressive.”

Stan shrugged. “I’ve been all around the world. You go to that many different places, you start to pick up a few things.” And when someone was holding a gun in your face, you started to pick them up really fast.

“Well yes, I can see how you might have been afforded a better opportunity to learn, but even so. That’s a lot more languages than I can speak,” Ford said, and he sure sounded like he was impressed.

Stan felt the corners of his lips start to tug up. Ford was still the genius here, and his nerd stuff was way more important than anything Stan could do, which was really just talking to people when you got down to it. Still, Stan could speak more languages than Ford could; he knew something and was better at something than his brother was. And wasn’t that something?

“May I please sit with you?” There was a girl standing at the end of their table, a tiny little thing. Not smaller than Dipper or Mabel, but that wasn’t saying much. Even though she was taller and bigger than the other two, she looked a lot more delicate than either of them, with her long black hair falling in waves to her waist and her big brown doe eyes and her sweet little smile. She was also Hispanic, which probably meant she belonged to the couple over there still fighting, though how a man that big could make a kid this small was a mystery.

Stan and Ford were both surprised enough by this kid showing up out of nowhere that Mabel was actually the first one to answer her. “Is that your mama?” she asked, standing up in her seat and pointing.

The kid didn’t look, but it wasn’t like there was any question who Mabel had to be talking about. “Yes, that’s my mamí and papí.”

Mabel nodded and glanced at Dipper real quick. “I think you can sit with us, ‘cause me ‘n’ Dipper don’t like it when our mama yells neither. ‘Cept we live with our daddy now and he never ever yells. He yelled at Uncle Stan one time, but now they made up and don’t fight no more.” Well, he and Ford didn’t _yell_ at each other anymore anyway. “Daddy, can she sit with us?”

“Won’t your parents be worried about where you are?” Ford asked. Stan snorted. He was pretty sure those two weren’t worried about anything right now except how much they wanted to throttle each other.

“As long as I stay in the restaurant, Mamí will come find me later. Besides, she’s about to make Papí go outside so they can fight some more.” Like the girl cued it, Stan heard footsteps behind him, then the door opening and closing.

“I suppose it’s fine then,” Ford said.

“You can sit in my seat!” said Mabel. “I’ll sit in Daddy’s lap.”

“I’m sure there’s enough room for all of us to fit on this bench without resorting to lap sitting,” Ford said, but he was still helping Mabel crawl up anyway.

“But I like sittin’ in your lap.”

Ford melted. “Alright then.” He was completely gone over those kids of his. Course, Stan sitting here with Dipper nestled up against his side and holding his hand probably didn’t have a whole lotta room to judge.

The girl slid into the seat next to Ford and Mabel, settling herself directly across from Stan. She sat with her back straight and her hands laced together on the table in front of her. “Thank you for letting me sit with you; it’s very nice of you. My name is María Ramírez. What are your names?” Ugh, this kid was going to give Stan diabetes.

“My name is Mabel Pines. That’s my twin brother Dipper, but you hafta call him Mason, and that’s Uncle Stan, and you can’t call him Lee, and this is my daddy, and his name is Ford.”

“Nice to meet you Mabel, Mason, Mr. Ford, Mr. Lee.”

“Oi, Mabel just told you not to call me Lee. I ain’t afraid to pop you one, kid,” Stan said. Ford shot him a glare, but Stan ignored him. He wouldn’t ever actually hit the kid, maybe scuff her on the back of the head like he’d do to Ford if his brother was being annoying, but not hard enough to really hurt. The kids weren’t freaking out because they knew that, and Ford was just worrying about nothing.

“Oh, oops. I guess I didn’t hear her right. I’m sorry Mr. Stan,” she said. She smiled at him and it was the sweetest, most innocent expression Stan had ever seen. Butter. Wouldn’t. Melt.

Stan laughed. “I like this kid. She’s a scamp.”

The girl’s little smile grew into an impish grin and her whole face lit up with delight. Her hands came unlaced as she leaned into the table, giggling. She looked like an actual kid now, not some kind of Stepford child. “I got you,” she said.

“Yeah, for coupla minutes, but you can’t con the con man, not for long,” Stan said.

“Uncle Stan, what’s a scamp?” Mabel asked.

“It’s what you and your brother are, you little gremlin,” Stan said.

“He’s saying she’s mischievous, but in a harmless or funny way,” Ford explained.

“Like you mean how she pretended not to know not to call Uncle Stan Lee?” Mabel asked.

“Yes, exactly,” Ford said.

“That is funny!” And now Stan was getting that impish grin directed at him in stereo. “Uncle Stan from now on I’m gonna call you Uncle Lee.”

“No you’re not,” Stan said. “You try to pull that on me and I’ll… tickle your brother into submission.”

Stan’s hand darted over to Dipper’s stomach, and the kid instinctively curled inward. “No, don’t tickle me, Uncle Stan!” he said between fits of laughter.

“I’ll save you, Dipper!” Mabel cried. She tried to lunge across the table, but Ford grabbed her before she managed to knock all their dirty dishes on the floor.

“That’s enough of that,” Ford said.

Stan stopped tickling Dipper and gave the kid a pat on the head before turning back to the girl. “So what’s your deal, uh…” Crap, what was her name again? She’d said it when she’d be doing her sugar and politeness routine, and Stan honestly hadn’t been paying attention. “... little missy?”

She stuck her tongue out at him. “My name is María, or sometimes Ria. And I’m not little. I’m ten years old, almost eleven.” Well, she had one thing right: she wasn’t little. She was tiny. How was she eleven? Were kids just smaller than Stan remembered?

“What fraction are you?” Mabel asked.

“What fraction?” Ria echoed.

“She’s talking about your age,” Ford explained. “Are you ten and five-sixths, two-thirds, one-half?”

“I’m ten and… three-quarters,” Ria said.

“How many twelves is that?” Dipper asked.

“Nine-twelfths.”

“Hey guess what?” Mabel said. “Me ‘n’ Dipper are six and no twelves ‘cause today’s our birthday!”

“Happy birthday! Did you get any good presents?”

“Uh-huh.” Mabel proceeded to tell Ria all about the presents they’d gotten and what they’d done that day, including going through the plot of the entire movie _again_. The kids chatted for a while, and even Dipper got in on it a little, which was more than he normally did with strangers. Course, this was the first time the stranger was also another kid, so that probably made a difference.

After a while Stan started to wonder why the waitress hadn’t brought their check yet. Not that they were in any rush to leave, but his dine-and-dash instinct was a lot easier to smother after they’d already paid. Before he could give into the urge to make a run for it or, possibly worse, actually ask a waitress to bring them the bill, the kitchen door opened and Susan walked out. So that’s what she’d been up to.

“Hey birthday twins, I think that’s for you,” Stan said with a nod toward Susan and the cake she was carrying.

“Happy Birthday!” Susan said. She set the cake down on the table. It was a tall round one with chocolate frosting, whipped cream and cherries dotted around the top edge, and a lot more than six unlit candles on top. “Now I didn’t have much time so it’s nothing fancy, but it should still taste good. I know you guys love chocolate.”

“You maked a whole cake for us?” Mabel asked.

“Of course! You’ve gotta have a birthday cake,” Susan said.

“Our mama never maked us a cake. She always buyed it from the store. Thank you Miss Susan!” Mabel said.

“Thank you Miss Susan,” Dipper echoed.

“You’re welcome! So whaddya say Mason, this enough for me to call you Dipper now?” Susan asked.

“No,” said Dipper. He used to be nervous about answering that question, like he was afraid he was going to get punished if he said no. But people kept asking and asking – not that Stan blamed them – and Dipper had gotten really good at shutting them down.

“Next time for sure,” Susan said. Then she turned to Ria, seeming to notice her for the first time. “And who are you, little cutie? Have you been keeping a secret kid from us too, Stan?”

“She ain’t my kid. No way I’d have a kid that’s as big a troublemaker as Little Miss Ria here,” Stan said.

“Yes you would,” said Ford.

“Good point,” Stan said. “But she still too old to be mine. She might not look it, but Ria here is actually seventeen years old.”

“I’m ten and three-quarters,” Ria said, and she stuck her tongue out at him again.

“Either way. Point is, when she was born I woulda been… sixteen, I guess.”

“Mamí was seventeen when Carlos was born.” Yikes. That might explain a few things. Growing up, Stan had always been told that if you got a girl pregnant you had to take responsibility and marry her. He might even still believe that, but he also knew that was a great way to end up having a lot of screaming matches in the middle of diners. That, and he knew if Ford ever got it into his head that he had to take responsibility and go marry Dipper and Mabel’s ma, then Stan would have him tossed into the loony bin until he came to his senses.

Stan didn’t say any of that, just, “Yeah well sixteen is younger than seventeen and still too young to have kids.”

Ria looked like she was thinking that over for a second, and apparently decided it was a good enough answer. She turned back to Susan with that sweet look on her face again; the kid was practically angelic. “Uncle Stan just wishes I was his daughter because I’m such a loveable scamp,” Ria said. Susan cooed.

Hot damn. “You got some mouth on you, don’t you Little Miss Ria?” If Stan could sweet talk half that good he probably wouldn’t be banned from over thirty different states right now. Course maybe Stan would be able to sweet talk that good if he were an adorable little girl; the kid clearly had an unfair advantage.

“All the better to eat cake with, Uncle Stan,” she said with her impish grin.

“Then let’s get some cake in you, cutie. But we’ve got to blow out the candles first.” Susan patted her apron pocket, then frowned. “I forgot the lighter.”

“I got you covered,” Stan said, pulling his lighter out of his pocket. He didn’t smoke as much anymore, since he wasn’t allowed to do it in the house or around the kids, but he still always carried his lighter on him.

“Thanks, handsome,” said Susan. Stan lit the first candle, and Susan grabbed it and used it to help him light the others.

“Aren’t there a few too many candles?” Ford asked.

“No, I double-checked them. Twelve candles, six for Mabel and six for Mason,” replied Susan.

“Oh. Of course,” Ford said, looking guilty of all things, and Stan nearly kicked him under the table. Just because Ford was a genius, that didn’t mean he had to think of absolutely everything. Susan had had a good idea; that didn’t make Ford a failure.

They sang happy birthday and the kids blew out the candles. Then they repeated the whole procedure when Ria told Mabel a little too late that she wasn’t supposed to tell anyone what her wish was because it wouldn’t come true then and Mabel nearly started crying. After that Susan had to go back to work, and the rest of them dug in.

None of them had gotten in more than a coupla bites when Ria’s ma walked up to their table. “There you are. I’m sorry about that, _mi preciosa_ ,” she said. She pet Ria’s head and let her hand trail down to cup her cheek.

“It’s fine,” Ria said with an exaggerated shrug. She looked down at her cake. “Did Papí leave?”

“Yes. He is going to find his own way home,” said Mrs. Ramírez. Her tone was gentle, hesitant even, but Ria looked like that was pretty much the answer she’d been expecting.

“Okay. Can we stay until I finish my cake?”

“Of course,” Mrs. Ramírez looked at the rest of them and smiled. “Thank you for watching her.”

“You’re welcome,” Ford said.

“A pretty lady is always welcome at my table. Especially a little firecracker like Ria here,” Stan added.

“Yes, she is my sweet little troublemaker,” Mrs. Ramírez said, and Ria grinned up at her like that was the best compliment she could have gotten.

“Hey Mrs. Ria’s mama, did you want some cake too?” Mabel said. “Cause we’ve got a whole big cake and even though I could eat the whole thing all by myself, Daddy says I’m not allowed to.”

“I think you’ve had enough sweets today without adding an entire cake on top of it,” Ford remarked dryly. Heck, both those kids had had way too many sweets today at this point; they’d probably be up half the night after all that sugar. But, eh, whatever, it was their birthday.

“Oh, I couldn’t,” said. Mrs. Ramírez.

“Sure you could.” Stan pulled Dipper the rest of the way up in his lap and slid over to make room for her. “You got anything else to do tonight?”

Mrs. Ramírez pursed her lips together for a moment, then smiled and sat down. “I suppose just a little piece.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I know someone will ask if I don't address it: There are two things we know about Soos's dad. One, he's a deadbeat, and two, Alex Hirsch has said that he's Caucasian. As such, I made the executive decision that in this story at least Soos's last name comes from his mother. Also yes, I did name Jesus's mother María . Bask in awe at my cleverness. Oops, sorry typo; I meant laziness. Definitely laziness.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

 

“Stop that,” Stan said.

“Stop what?” Ford asked, confused. He hadn’t been tapping his foot or drumming his fingers or muttering under his breath or doing anything that Stan might find irksome. He’d just been sitting quietly in the passenger seat while Stan drove them home.

“Stop thinking so loud,” Stan said.

“You want me to stop _thinking_?”

“You’re right, asking too much. Stop worrying then. The kids are going to be fine.”

“I know that.” Today was the first day since the day they arrived that his children, who had been left with serious abandonment issues thanks to their mother, went somewhere without either Ford or Stan to accompany them, so it was natural for Ford to be a little concerned, even if they were just going to school. Still, he knew they would be fine.

“Uh-huh, sure you do,” Stan said, dripping with skepticism. “Look, you talked to the principal, made sure both of the kids got put into the same class with the teacher they already like because Ria’s been talking her up and you already like because Ria’s ma Teodocia has been talking her up. You talked to the teacher for way longer than I woulda put up with you about anything that might go wrong and how she should handle it. The kids have the home phone number and address memorized and written down on slips in their backpacks. You took the morning off work to hang out with them, we walked them all the way to their classroom, and we’re both going to be there to pick them up after school. Pretty sure you did literally everything you could have at this point.”

“I could have homeschooled them,” Ford said, but he didn’t really mean it. He had put it forth as a serious suggestion before, but the school’s principal had made some excellent arguments about social development, and Stan had pointed out Dipper and Mabel could hardly spend the rest of their lives within earshot of one of the two of them, and Ford had dropped the idea. “That isn’t what I was thinking about anyway.”

“You weren’t over there obsessing about the niblets’ first day at school? Color me surprised. So what’s on your mind, Poindexter?”

Here was what Ford had been thinking about. He had been thinking about the attic room that had been transformed into Stan’s bedroom, not just by the addition of furniture, but by Stan’s mess spreading his personality throughout the room. He had been thinking about the spot next to his car, where the Stanmobile could now reliably be found. He had been thinking about routines, about shared meals and mornings working peacefully down in his lab knowing Stan was watching the kids and afternoons and evenings all spent together. He had been thinking about Stan coming down to Ford’s lab with a sandwich and an admonishment to eat anytime Ford failed to remember to come up and grab lunch. He had been thinking about Mabel proudly showing him the skinny strip of cloth that she had knitted and was well on its way to becoming the promised blanket and about Dipper’s grin when Stan had told Ford about Dipper’s impressive left hook. He had been thinking about all of that and the way it fit together so naturally, like this was the way things were supposed to be.

Here was the other thing Ford had been thinking about; toffee peanuts, and how he had yet to see any in the house. They had them at the local grocery store, Ford had seen them in there not too long ago. And if Ford had seen them then Stan, who had taken over the grocery shopping since he’d arrived, must have seen them too. But he hadn’t bought any. Probably that didn’t mean anything. Maybe Stan’s tastes in snacks had changed. It had been almost ten years; it wouldn’t be strange if they had. The nagging feeling at the back of Ford’s mind that the lack of toffee peanuts was a sign that Stan hadn’t settled in here like Ford had thought, hoped he had must be mistaken. Maybe. Probably.

The thought had wormed its way into Ford’s head last week, and it wouldn’t leave. Worse, it brought other thoughts with it. Stan had said that first night he was willing to stay to help for as long as Ford needed it, and it was only now that it occurred to Ford how vague that was. Who was deciding when Ford didn’t need help anymore? What metric were they using? If the children were in school now and Ford had a research assistant coming to help him with his work on Monday, did he really _need_ help anymore? Even if he didn’t need help, what if he still wanted it anyway? What if Ford wanted Stan to stay regardless of anything to do with being helped?

Then there was the other side of that same question. One of the few things that Ford had gleaned about the ten years the two of them spent apart was Stan rarely stayed in the same place for long. How long then before he got tired of Gravity Falls? Or was he already tired of it and just waiting until he decided Ford didn’t need help anymore before he left? That was ridiculous, wasn’t it? Probably. Maybe.

“Earth to Ford? You in there, Sixer?”

“Yeah, sorry.” What Ford ought to do is tell Stan what was bothering him. It was like he told his children, no one can help you if you don’t tell them when something’s wrong. That’s what Ford ought to do, but he couldn’t just ask Stan to stay. What if Stan said no? “I was wondering what you were planning on doing during the day now while the children are at school.”

There, that was a good question. It was assumptive. If Ford simply took it as a given that Stan would be staying, then maybe Stan wouldn’t question it either.

Stan gave Ford a darting glance before turning his eyes back to the road. “I guess I haven’t thought about it. I, uh… was there something you wanted me to be doing?”

“No. I was just wondering,” Ford said.

“I guess there’s the errands and stuff I usually either have to take the kids with me for or do in the afternoon while you’re not working. I could do those while the kids are at school now instead. And I don’t think anyone has actually _clean_ cleaned the house since I got here, which is probably not a good thing, so I could try tackling that.”

“That sounds good,” Ford said. That sounded like Ford still needed help. “Do you think that’s going to be enough to keep you busy? You won’t get bored?”

“If I get bored and there’s nothing I need to do, I can always turn on the TV for a little while,” Stan said. He gave Ford another side-long look, longer this time. “Are you sure there’s nothing you’re trying to get at?”

“No, no, of course not.” Yes, absolutely. “I don’t want you to get bored is all,” Ford said.

“Well I appreciate the concern, but I have actually been bored before. I know how to handle it,” Stan said.

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” He hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

“What you’re _afraid_ of?” Stan echoed. “You think I’m going to get bored and wreck your house?” Your house, a distant, clinical part of Ford noted. Not “our house” or even “the house,” _your house_.

“No, I just… I’m worried that you might get bored and decide you’re ready to move on from Gravity Falls altogether.”

“Should’ve stuck with the first one,” Stan said tightly. “Because I can admit there’s a possibility I could get bored and do something stupid and wreck some shit. But to act like I could decide to just up and leave because I got bored one day-“

“That’s not what I meant either,” Ford insisted. “I know you’re capable of keeping yourself entertained for one slow afternoon. What I’m talking about is a long string of slow afternoon after slow afternoon after slow afternoon making you decide that you’d rather be elsewhere. It’s not like we can keep the kids out of school just to keep you entertained.”

Stan slammed on the brakes. He jerked the car over to the shoulder. When they’d come to a stop, he shifted into park and then grabbed onto the steering wheel with both hands.

It took Ford a minute to work through his shock enough to realize what he’d just said. _It’s not like we can keep the kids out of school to keep you entertained._ “I didn’t mean it like that,” he said in a small voice. It occurred to Ford that he might need to get better at saying what he meant.

Stan’s hands clenched tighter on the steering wheel, his knuckles going white with the force of it. His jaw worked few times before he finally spoke. “I didn’t sabotage your damn project.”

“What?” Ford said. “But you admitted to breaking it to my face.”

“That doesn’t mean I _sabotaged_ it. What am I, a KGB agent? I broke it, on accident, because that’s the kind of stupid shit I do. Then I tried to fix it and thought I had, until you came in the next day spitting mad.” Ford had to admit, that sounded like something Stan would do, maybe more so than sneaking behind Ford’s back to break his machine; Stan always tended more to the in-your-face type of confrontational. “It’s not like I didn’t want you to go to that stupid school.”

Ford made a noise of blatant disbelief. The story itself might have been believable on its own, but Stan had made his feelings on West Coast Tech abundantly apparent.

“What the hell do you want me to say, Ford?” Stan yelled. “That I was thrilled that after nine years of trying to fix up our boat my twin brother and best friend decided to leave me behind in New Jersey to scrape barnacles off of the saltwater taffy stand so he could run off to some school on the other side of the country that he’d never even heard of before that day? Of course I wasn’t fucking happy about it. I was pissed as hell. Pissed at your stupid project, at that damn school, at every single one of the teachers that talked you up enough to get that school to come look at you, and I was pissed as hell at you for leaving me behind. Fuck!” Stan slammed an open palm against the side of the steering wheel, punctuating his final curse with a loud smack. Then he drew his hands together at the top of the steering wheel and rested his head on them, every line of his posture screaming utter defeat. “Fuck.”

After their first big fight, back shortly after Stan had first arrived in Gravity Falls, Ford had decided that maybe the facts of the matter weren’t that important, and what mattered was that Stan had felt abandoned. But here now were the facts of the matter thrown in stark relief from Stan’s perspective, and suddenly Ford could see why he had felt that way. True, Ford’s desire for West Coast Tech had never been about Stan. Ford had wanted to create his own identity for himself separate from Stan, but it was the first part of that sentence that was important. It hadn’t even been about just being separate from Stan; Ford wanted an identity for himself separate from Pa and Ma and Glass Shard Beach and New Jersey and all the small-minded small town kind of people who would never see him as anything more than a freak. That’s what Ford had meant. But that’s not what Stan had heard, because that’s not what Ford had said.

“Even so,” Stan continued softly, not lifting his head. “If going to that nerd school was what it was going to take to make you happy, then I wanted you to go. I just didn’t want you to want to go.”

What Stan had wanted Ford to do. What he had wanted Ford to want to do. It was a subtle distinction. It was also an important one. “You wanted me to want to go treasure hunting,” Ford said. Ford hadn’t wanted that, had grown past wanting it for years at that point. But he couldn’t fault Stan for having his own hopes for the future and for hoping that Ford would be a part of it, especially not now, not without being a hypocrite.

“Christ.” Stan turned his head to look at Ford and smiled like he was about to cry. “You aren’t half an idiot, are you? What do you think I would have said if while you were babbling on about your nerd school you said to me ‘By the way, West Coast Tech is in Pasadena, which is right next door to LA. You should come with me and you can flirt with the Hollywood babes while I study multidimensional paradigm theory’?”

Later Ford might find time to be surprised Stan not only remembered West Coast Tech’s name, but he also knew where it was located and that they had multidimensional paradigm theory. For the moment, he was too distracted by the visions Stan’s words had conjured up. Ford studying at the cutting edge of science and technology and getting his degrees from one of the best schools in the country. Stan with a job somewhere in downtown LA where he could flirt with all the “Hollywood babes” and charm everyone in sight. An apartment with two very different bedrooms and a living space that was a mix of both. Days spent apart pursuing their separate interests and evenings spent together, sharing in each other’s lives. The two of them, Stan and Ford, against the world.

Just the two of them. Because West Coast Tech meant no Backupsmore, and no Backupsmore meant no drunk one night stand with Steph. That meant no Dipper and Mabel.

The dream vanished like mist, because Ford could no longer imagine a world without his children in it. While it had lasted though… “I think I would have liked that.”

“Yeah, well, if wishes were horses.” Stan let out a heavy sigh, then sat up straight again. “There’s something else I gotta tell you, probably shoulda a long time ago.” Ford braced himself. “I’m sorry I broke your stu- your project.”

That wasn’t what Ford had been expecting. That wasn’t at all what he had been expecting. Something in him settled, and he realized that somewhere in between Stan showing up at his doorstep and realizing that Stan had felt as abandoned as he had, in between Dipper’s panic attack and Mabel’s new-found passion for knitting, in between stickers and baseball caps and hair clips and sandwiches, in between jokes and stories and teasing and even the arguments, somewhere in the midst of all that, Ford had already forgiven Stan. He’d only been waiting on an apology.

Ford didn’t get a chance to say any of that, because Stan wasn’t through. His litany continued, coming out soft and broken. “I’m sorry I broke your project, I’m sorry I kept you from getting into West Coast Tech, and I’m sorry I ruined your life. Don’t kick me out.”

“What?” The word burst its way out of Ford. “Who said anything about kicking you out?”

“I ain’t stupid. You said back when that you wanted me around right then and we’d figure out the rest as we went. Obviously you’ve been figuring things out. You’ve got your friend coming up to help you out with work, and the kids are in school now for at least part of the day; I know you don’t need my help anymore, especially not with all the people who’d be willing to line up to play babysitter if you needed one. And now you’re dropping hints about how I’m going to be bored with nothing to do all day but laze around, riding on your coattails-“

“That is _not_ what I _meant_. I’m not trying to kick you out. I want you to-“ Ford stopped. Corrected himself. “I want you to want to stay. Indefinitely. Permanently.” _Please don’t leave me again_.

“That is what I want,” Stan said.

“Okay. Okay. So you’ll stay then?” Ford meant for that to come out as a statement, but he couldn’t seem to help the way it lilted up toward the end.

“Yeah. I’ll stay.” _I never wanted to go in the first place_.

Ford closed his eyes and let out a soft exhale. The engine rumbled beneath them as the car idled. Out on the road, another car was driving up, and slowly came to a stop next to them. Stan obligingly rolled down his window.

“You doing okay there, Pines twins?” asked the woman who Ford was certain he’d never seen before in his life.

“Yeah, we’re great,” Stan answered.

“Alright then. You guys have a good day,” she said, and she continued on her way.

Stan shifted the car into drive and pulled back on the road.

“I really am sorry,” he said a minute or so later. “I wasn’t just saying that.”

“I’m sorry too,” Ford said.

“You don’t have to apologize to me for anything,” Stan objected.

“Well I’m going to do it anyway. I’m sorry for…” For what? Ford knew there were things he needed to apologize for, he wouldn’t feel so guilty after their conversation if there weren’t, but he was struggling to pinpoint anything in specific. Oh, of course. “For not always saying what I mean.”

Stan chuckled. “Yeah, you should work on that. And, you know, I guess maybe I could be a little better at listening.”

Ford smiled, the expression slowly growing seemingly of its own accord until it had taken over his face. “We can work on it together.”

 

* * *

 

Dipper held Mabel’s hand, and he looked and looked, but he didn’t see Daddy or Uncle Stan or their cars anywhere. Mabel squeezed on his hand, and Dipper squeezed back. “There’re lots and lots of cars,” Dipper said. “Maybe Daddy and Uncle Stan are all the way at the end of the line.”

Mabel nodded because that made sense. Daddy and Uncle Stan said they’d be back when school was over, and school had already been over long enough for Ms. Reynolds to walk the whole class all the way from her room to the front of the school. They said they would be here, so they had to be here. Somewhere. Dipper squeezed on Mabel’s hand, and she squeezed back.

Dipper was watching the long line of all the cars slowly moving forward when other kids got in them, so Mabel saw Daddy and Uncle Stan first. They were walking over from the parking lot where they’d parked this morning when they took Dipper and Mabel to school.

“Daddy! Uncle Stan!” Mabel shouted, and she ran over to them. Dipper was still holding her hand, so he had to run too, but that was okay, because Dipper wanted to run to them too. It had been hours and hours since he had seen Daddy or Uncle Stan and even though Daddy went down into the basement and worked for hours and hours every day, Uncle Stan was still always there, and Daddy told Dipper and Mabel the secret code to his elevator so they could read or color quietly in the room with him when he was working. But at school Daddy and Uncle Stan were all the way back home where Dipper couldn’t go see them even if he wanted to. He knew they’d be back because they said they would be, but Dipper kept getting scared that maybe they wouldn’t, and he even asked Mabel to tell him how to breathe one time because even though Dipper didn’t forget, maybe he would, and Uncle Stan wouldn’t be there. Except now they were here, and everything was okay.

Mabel hugged Daddy and then Uncle Stan, and Dipper was still holding her hand so he hugged them both too. Then Mabel grabbed Daddy’s hand, and Dipper grabbed Uncle Stan’s hand, and they all walked back to the car.

“Did you have fun at your first day of school?” Daddy asked.

“Yes,” said Dipper, and so did Mabel. School was fun, even if they didn’t learn how to do really smart stuff like how Daddy and Uncle Stan were teaching them at home. But Ms. Reynolds was really nice and funny, just like Ria said, and there were lots of other kids there to play games with, and it would be even more fun tomorrow, because Dipper wouldn’t have to be scared about what if Daddy and Uncle Stan didn’t come back anymore.

“What all did you do today?” Daddy asked. Dipper let Mabel answer because she always had lots and lots of words, so many that they spilled right out of her. Plus he knew that after Mabel was done answering, Daddy would ask Dipper what he thought, and everyone would listen and be interested in what Dipper had to say too.

“I took your advice today, kid,” Uncle Stan said to Dipper.

“What advice?” Dipper asked.

“I told Ford I was sorry for messing up a long time ago,” Uncle Stan said.

Dipper didn’t remember telling Uncle Stan to do that, but it was a good thing to do. When you do something wrong you’re always supposed to say you’re sorry. “That’s why Daddy is extra happy now,” Dipper guessed. This morning Dipper and Mabel could tell that Daddy was worried about something, but Daddy didn’t look even a little worried now.

“That’s part of the reason, yeah,” Uncle Stan said.

“And it’s why you’re extra happy too,” Dipper said. Because if you did something wrong and said you’re sorry, then after you did you felt better.

“You’re probably right. You give good advice, Dipper. I’m impressed,” Uncle Stan said.

“Thank you,” said Dipper, and he smiled and looked away. Dipper squeezed Uncle Stan’s hand, and Uncle Stan squeezed back.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

Fiddleford pulled into Stanford’s driveway, to use the term loosely, on the far side of the two cars already parked there. Two cars. Why in tarnation would Ford have two cars? Maybe if one were a pick-up truck or a van or something of the like that Ford could use to haul specimens or equipment around, but they both looked to be midsized sedans. Not to mention the one of them was bright red and looked to be a convertible, neither of which fit into Fiddleford’s idea of Ford’s style.

Stanford must have a guest over, Fiddleford decided, though why he would have someone over today was beyond Fiddleford. He had told him he’d be coming up today. Granted, Fiddleford had made uncommonly good time on the drive up from California, and it was very possible Ford hadn’t been expecting to see him until later this evening. Or maybe Stanford had gotten so absorbed in work he’d clean forgotten what day it was. Yeah, that sounded like Ford all right.

Well, nothing for it now. Fiddleford would just have to go on in, and hope he wasn’t interrupting anything important. He headed up the steps to the front porch, but the door opened before he got the chance to knock. The man standing on the other side of the door wasn’t Stanford.

Now truth was, Fiddleford had no real basis for thinking that. The man certainly looked a lot like Stanford. He didn’t have glasses on, but Ford might have gotten contacts since Fiddleford had seen him last. Fiddleford had considered getting them himself, but his wife liked him better with glasses, and Fiddleford’s mama always taught him not to argue with a lady. The man’s hair was grown longer than Ford’s had been, but that was what hair did generally. His style was a little different than what Fiddleford was used to expecting on Ford, but it was entirely possible that this small town he was living in out in lumber country had caused Ford to pick up a slightly more casual look. There wasn’t anything concrete at all Fiddleford could point to as different that couldn’t be explained away by the years it had been since they’d seen each other, but something in Fiddleford’s gut told him that this wasn’t Stanford. He didn’t care how unscientific it was, Fiddleford trusted his gut.

“You aren’t Stanford,” he said firmly.

Not-Stanford looked amused by his pronouncement. “I would sarcastically congratulate you on your observation skills there, but given how many people I’ve caught looking at my hands to see which one I am, I think genuine congratulations might be in order.”

At the mention, Fiddleford automatically looked down at the man’s hands, but didn’t understand what he was talking about until Not-Stanford held one up and waggled his fingers, all five of them. “Stanley Pines, though most folks just call me Stan. Nice to meet you.” He lowered his hand and offered it forward.

Fiddleford shook it. “Fiddleford McGucket. Pleasure.” He remembered Stanley now, Ford’s twin brother. “I hadn’t realized you and Stanford had made up.” The way Fiddleford had heard it, the two of them hadn’t spoken a word to each other since high school.

Stan looked at him closely for a minute, then smacked himself on the forehead. “My brother is an idiot.”

“That is something I’ve noticed about him,” Fiddleford said.

Stan laughed. “Come on in, Fiddleford. Yeesh, that’s a long name. You mind if I call you Fidds? Fiddler? McGucket?”

“McGucket isn’t any shorter than Fiddleford is,” he answered as he stepped into the house. “They’re both three syllables.”

“You sure about that? It definitely sounds shorter.”

“I do know my own name. I rather not be called Fiddler, seeing as I’m not one, but you can call me either of those other two just fine,” Fiddleford said.

“FIdds it is. Go ahead and grab a seat and I’ll buzz Ford up from the basement.” Stan gestured at the couch and chair before going over to speaker mounted on the wall. He pressed one of the two buttons on the speaker unit, emitting a loud buzzing sound. After a moment he let up on that button and pressed on the other one, leaning in to talk into the speaker. “Hey genius.” Fiddleford stifled a chuckle at that. He had his own brother – younger one, not a twin – who had been known to call him genius in exactly that tone. Come to think of it, Fiddleford might have been tempted to use that tone on Ford himself a time or two, though personally Fiddleford was much more like to get straight to the point and just call Ford an idiot. “Your friend is here.”

“Now that’s a nifty little doo-dad,” Fiddleford said, giving the speaker a closer look.

“Ford made it,” Stan said. “It comes in handy. This house has three sublevels and a freaking elevator to get down to them; we can’t exactly just open the basement door and shout down there.”

“We?” Fiddleford echoed. It was possible Stan was referring to the two of them right now, but the way he said it made Fiddleford think he was talking in a more general sense.

“Nope, no way am I depriving Ford of the realization that he didn’t tell you anything and has to explain it all to you before I get back. Speaking of which, I gotta go. I’m already running late as it is.” That’s right, Stan had been heading out the door when Fiddleford had walked up, hadn’t he?

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you,” Fiddleford said.

Stan shrugged it off. “Not like you timed it that way on purpose. You can wait in here and Ford should be up in a couple a’ minutes. If he’s not up in ten, go ahead and buzz him again. If he’s not up in thirty, then I should be back and we can all go oust him from whatever he’s working on.”

Fiddleford chuckled. “Same old Ford then.”

“You got that right,” Stan said, rolling his eyes, but he was grinning too. “Okay, I’m going. Make yourself comfortable ‘til Ford gets here.”

Fiddleford glanced over at the couch once Stan had left, but he’d been in the car driving since before dawn that morning. He didn’t particularly relish the notion of spending more time sitting. Instead he wandered aimlessly about the room, stretching his legs and looking around. Not that there was that much to look at – contrary to what Fiddleford had come to expect from his friend, there wasn’t much in the way of his work in here. No specimens sitting in glass jars, or half-finished inventions out on the table or corkboards full of notes or anything of the like. That had always been the basis of Ford’s decoration sense before, barring a handful of posters of famous scientists, and without any of that, the room was fairly sparse in terms of decor. There was a stuffed bear head above the fireplace, which was such a bizarre choice for Ford that Fiddleford stared at it for what may have been a full minute before moving on.

The next thing in the room that gave him pause was a chest off in the corner. The thing of it was, it looked like a toy chest. But what on God’s green Earth would Stanford be doing with a toy chest? Fiddleford was tempted to lift the lid and see what was inside, but he had been raised with better manners than that, so he let it be and walked over to the bookshelf. That only brought up further questions, because while the top four shelfs looked to be the kind of books Fiddleford might expect Ford to have, the bottom two were filled with picture books and the like.

The sound of footsteps coming down the hallway had Fiddleford straightening up just in time to see Ford come through the doorway. “Fiddleford!” he said, then threw his arms around Fiddleford in a hug.

Now Fiddleford had no problem with giving or receiving hugs himself. He’d grown up in a very friendly small town and his parents had always been real big on good ole fashioned Southern hospitality. Giving out hugs was just a neighborly sort of thing to do. Stanford, on the other hand, had not had that sort of upbringing. He never talked about his family all that much, but Fiddleford had got the impression of his dad being a tough, stoic type that thought hugging wasn’t the kind of thing men did.

As Fiddleford didn’t think it was particularly neighborly or friendly to go around hugging someone who didn’t want it, he’d been planning on giving Ford an arm clasp or a back pat or something similar. He certainly hadn’t been expecting for Ford to grab him in a hug. But then, it had been an awful long time since the two of them had seen each other; maybe it wasn’t that surprising that Ford would be excited enough to be more open to hugging than usual.

“You came!” Ford said grinning, and it really was him this time – Fiddleford was sure of it once the hug ended and he got a good look at him. That was good, because Fiddleford didn’t know if he could have taken the sudden appearance of a heretofore unheard of third triplet.

“I said I would,” Fiddleford said, but he was grinning too. It was good to see his old friend again. Ford looked good, different in a way that Fiddleford couldn’t quite place, but good different. 

“I know you did, but now you’re actually here.” Ford paused and looked around the room. “Where’s Stan?”

“He said he had to go somewhere and he’d be back in about half an hour,” Fiddleford said.

“Is it that late already?” Ford said, glancing at his watch. “I guess it is. Time flies. Though I have to say, this is still much earlier than I thought you were going to get here. You must have made excellent time on the drive up.”

“That I did, and I left real early this morning.”

“Well, good time or no, that’s still quite a drive. Can I get you anything, something to drink or eat?”

“Glass of water would be nice. Or I wouldn’t say no to some sweet tea if you happen to have any,” Fiddleford said.

“We have tea bags and sugar,” Ford offered.

“That’ll suit. So long as you have ice too.” It’d be better if he also had baking soda, and it’d be best if there’d already been a pitcher in the refrigerator chilling, but Fiddleford’s mama also taught him not to complain about the way anyone else kept house. Besides, even if there had been a pitcher ready he didn’t know if he would have trusted it. Both because he didn’t entirely trust Ford’s culinary skills, and because despite how simple sweet tea was to make, Fiddleford had yet to meet anyone from north of the Mason Dixon that could do it right.

After reassuring Fiddleford that he did have ice, Ford led the two of them down the hallway toward the kitchen. “How have you been?” he asked.

“Oh, I’ve been just fine, same for the missus and Tate. I’m more interested in what you’ve been up to recently. You didn’t tell me you made up with your brother,” Fiddleford said.

“I didn’t?” said Ford.

“You didn’t. Though I suppose we were both a little distracted the last time we spoke,” Fiddleford said good-naturedly. Ford might be worse about it than he was, but there was no denying that both of them could get a little overly focused when working on a project, especially when they were both working on one together.

Ford chuckled. “I suppose we were. Stan’s been here about two months now, and we’re still feeling some things out, but it’s going well. Great. He’s agreed to move in on a permanent basis.”

“Him and his kids?” Fiddleford guessed. That would explain the picture books and the toy chest.

“Stan doesn’t have kids. None that he knows of at any rate,” said Ford.

“Then who does all the kid stuff out there belong to?” Fiddleford asked.

Ford froze, one hand on the door to one of the cabinets. He slowly turned around, still holding the box of tea bags in his other hand. “I didn’t… I could have sworn I remembered calling you right after it happened. I was going to tell you it was all your fault.”

“What’s all my fault? Aside from week afore last, when we were talking about this new project, I haven’t talked to you since I called you up to wish you a happy birthday three months ago.”

Ford put the box down and appeared to be bracing himself. “Stan doesn’t have kids. I do.”

Stanford had kids? How could Fiddleford not have known about that? He and Ford didn’t talk as much as they used to, but they still kept in touch often enough that Fiddleford should have heard that Ford had kids before now, especially kids old enough for some of the books Fiddleford had been looking at. Fiddleford hadn’t even heard anything about any kind of lady friend. Not that he’d found that surprising at the time. Ford had always had difficulty talking to girls, and had been far too interested in his studies to make any effort to try. In fact, the only time Fiddleford remembered seeing Ford with a woman at all was that night Fiddleford dragged him out to celebrate getting his grant when Ford had… oh. “Those kids of yours. They wouldn’t happen to be about six years old would they?”

Ford gave him a slightly pained smile. “They just had their sixth birthday on the 31st.”

“Ah. I see. Let me get my tea first. I got a feeling this is going to be a doozy of a tale.”

It was quite a story. Fiddleford suspected there was more to it too, from the meaningful way Ford described the kid’s mother as “less than ideal,” and from the laundry list of things that Fiddleford was, and more often wasn’t, supposed to do around the children. Even just the things Ford did say, or alluded to more like, had Fiddleford half-wishing for something a little stronger. Not that he would so early in the day, even if that weren’t against one of Ford’s rules.

“Have you thought about pressing charges?” Fiddleford asked after Ford finished telling him about the twice weekly “manliness” lessons the kids had with his neighbor which had gotten started because Ford’s son Mason had wanted to learn how to protect his sister from bad people. 

“Pressing charges?” 

“For child abuse. I can read between the lines of your story here.” It made Fiddleford’s blood boil just thinking about anyone ever doing that to a child, much less their own mother doing it. Little four year old Tate looked up to his mother as his hero, and the idea of someone turning around and abusing that trust - it was unconscionable.

“Oh, against their mother you mean,” Ford said. 

“That woman ain’t a mother,” Fiddleford retorted, his accent growing thicker with anger. 

“I’m not saying I disagree with you there. Yes, I thought about pressing charges, but ultimately decided against it. The only tangible evidence I have of anything is the letter she left with the kids when she dropped them off here. Beyond that everything I know is based on inferences on things the kids have said. That means if I did take it to court everything would rely on their testimony, and I won’t put them through that. Certainly Steph deserves to face consequences for her actions, but I have to put Dipper and Mabel’s emotional well-being first,” Ford said. 

“Well I can’t argue with those priorities.”

The sound of the front door opening came from down the hallway, followed by a little girl shouting, “It’s my turn to press the buzzer!”

“I’m in the kitchen, sweetheart!” Ford called back. 

Two pairs of running feet thudded down the hallway, accompanied by two voices crying, “Daddy!” A second later the twins burst through the doorway and scampered up to Ford. Ford got up out of his chair and kneeled down to hug them both. When he sat back down, Mabel climbed right up in the chair with him. Mason gave Fiddleford a wary look before climbing up in his dad’s lap next to his sister and grabbing ahold of Ford’s hand. 

“Dipper, Mabel, this is my friend Fiddleford. Fiddleford, these are my children, Mason and Mabel.”

“Nice to meet you both,” Fiddleford said, smiling.

“You’re our daddy’s friend who’s going to come over all the time to help him with work stuff, right?” Mabel asked. 

“That’s me,” Fiddleford agreed. 

“But he’s not a boyfriend, is he Daddy?” Mason asked. 

“No, he’s not a boyfriend. Fiddleford actually has a wife and a son, but they stayed back home in Palo Alto,” Ford said. 

“Okay,” said Mason. 

“Okay,” Mabel echoed. “Hey Daddy, guess what happened in school today?” Apparently Fiddleford was old news now. That was kids and their attention spans for you. 

“What happened?”

“No Daddy, I said you had to guess.”

Fiddleford chuckled as Ford obliged Mabel by trying to guess what they’d been up to in school that day. Watching the three of them, Fiddleford finally put his finger on what is was about Ford that had seemed so different since the last time Fiddleford had seen him. 

“He get you all caught up?” Stan had come trailing into the kitchen sometime after the children had, and was now leaning against the counter looking at Fiddleford. 

“He did, thank you.”

“It’s not going to be a problem for you, is it? Having those two gremlins running around?” Stan’s tone made it clear if that was a problem for Fiddleford, then Stan had a problem with him. 

“Of course not.” This wasn’t what Fiddleford had been expecting when he drove up here. He’d been expecting the same old Stanford, buried in his work. Instead he’d gotten a single father raising two children with the help of his twin brother. No, not at all what he had been expecting, but that didn’t mean Fiddleford had a problem with the way things were. He was happy for his friend. Because for the first time since Fiddleford had met him, Ford didn’t look lonely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mostly unrelated to this story, but I’ve noticed that whenever I post a new chapter to this work, the work always ends up somewhere midway down the page when sorting by recently updated rather than at the top like it should be. Does anyone know what might be going on or how to fix this?


	15. Chapter Fifteen

Ford smiled to himself as he and Fiddleford poured over the blueprints to the portal. It had been quite a change having Fiddleford around, but in a good way. Ford hadn’t been starved for companionship the way he was now realizing he had been before the children and Stan had shown up, but he had been a bit starved for intellectual companionship. Not that he was trying to imply Stan and the children weren’t intelligent. The children were very bright, but they were also only six years old. And Stan’s type of intellect always had more lent itself to charm and street smarts and learning languages apparently, not at all like Ford’s academic and STEM inclination. By contrast, Fiddleford’s intellect seemed perfectly matched to Ford’s own, and the more practical bent as opposed to Ford’s more theoretical only served to heighten how well they complimented one another. With Fiddleford, Ford’s high level thoughts weren’t just heard, they were understood and expanded upon. The same could be said of Bill too, but Bill’s visits could be few and far between at times, and what’s more with Bill Ford always felt the need to prove himself, prove that he was good enough for Bill; talking with Fiddleford was much more relaxing.

It was… nice, having Fiddleford around. Better than nice even. Even now eight days after he had arrived, Ford occasionally found himself swept up in a burst of joy and gratitude at having his friend here with him.

Though really, the joy and gratitude weren’t solely related to Fiddleford’s presence. For the past six years Ford had had his work, and for almost the past two years he’d had Bill, and he’d been fine with that, happy even. Really. But now Ford had his work, his muse, his children, his brother, and his friend. So much had changed in the past two and a half months. It was a bit dizzying at times, especially the calm ordinary moments like this.

“I still think that if they’re cold, they should just put on some pants,” Ford said, continuing the thread of his and Fiddleford’s conversation about the latest fashion trend. He looked thoughtfully at the schematic for the power source for the portal. Something still wasn’t right there.

“I reckon a leggings and leg warmer combo is a mite bit warmer than regular pants, for your calves at least. But then I don’t know that’s relevant anyway, since they’re probably doing it for the look of it, not for warmth,” Fiddleford replied.

“I suppose.” Ford had never really understood fashion. He liked to dress nice – suits and ties or sweaters and slacks – but fashion was a mystery to him. “I may end up getting the chance to try them out myself; I wouldn’t be surprised if Mabel decided that the next step toward getting good enough to knit a sweater was leg warmers.”

“I would think a scarf would be the next step,” Fiddleford said, but he sounded distracted. Ford looked up at him, and Fiddleford was staring down at the blueprints with a thoughtful frown on his face. His leg was going at about 2.3 kbps – knee bounces per second – which suggested slight agitation, but not excessive distress.

“This portal…” Fiddleford said slowly. “This whole project really, it’s a pretty big thing.”

“No one ever changed the world by thinking small. Microbiologists and particle physicists excluded, of course,” Ford said.

Fiddleford gave a tight smile in response to Ford’s little joke, though Ford suspected it was politeness rather than actual amusement. “True enough. I guess it’s not the scope of the project what got me thrown so much as… well to be honest, these blueprints here are unbelievably complex; beyond what I would think to be possible for you to come up with in the time you’ve had. I hope you don’t take offense to me saying that. I’m not trying to be insulting of your intelligence, but I got a pretty good idea what I’m capable of, and you’ve said yourself that I’m a better hand with the mechanical engineering than you are. I suppose what I’m getting at is I can’t help but wonder if you had someone else help you come up with all this.”

What an odd question. Fiddleford was right, of course, but Ford would have never expected the notion to occur to anyone, so it still struck him as an odd question. That also meant Ford didn’t have an answer prepared.

Stanford had always wanted to tell someone about his divine experience. Perhaps that was petty of him, perhaps Bill’s presence should be reward enough on its own, but there’d still been a part of him that wanted to hold up Bill’s choosing of him as proof that he was more than what people had always wanted to make him out to be, that he was meant for something greater. But for the longest time, there hadn’t been anyone to tell. The height of Stanford’s social interactions had been when the cashier made idle chit chat with him for a few minutes during his monthly trip to the grocery store. He might not be the most skilled in the realm of social interaction, but he did know that visits from celestial beings didn’t make for a good topic for small talk.

Then the children came, and Stan came, bringing with them real conversations, long talks that went much deeper than the superficial pleasantness of “How are you?/Fine, and you?” With the three of them primarily, but Ford had even found himself engaging with the other citizens of Gravity Falls these days. He would even go as far to say he had friends now in some of the townsfolk. Still, he said nothing.

Opportunities would arise, perfect openings for him to share the truth of Bill and his relationship with him, and Stanford would hold his tongue and let them pass. There were a million different reasons for it, but they all seemed to boil down to one simple concern. They just wouldn’t understand. If Stanford tried to tell them, they would think him mad, or worse, think that Bill was an unsavory character trying to tangle him up in some kind of black magic. Nothing could be further from the truth; Stanford knew that Bill was a true gentleman who was only trying to help and look out for him, but he wasn’t sure how he’d make anyone else see that if they decided to be blind to it. And Fiddleford, with his superstitious and religious nature – though how he reconciled those things with his passion for science would be forever beyond Ford – wouldn’t understand either.

“Nonsense. With hard work anything is possible,” Stanford said. He cast about for something to distract Fiddleford with. He knew he had a stack of calculations around here somewhere. By the time Fiddleford finished his customary quintuple-check on all of them, hopefully his concern would be forgotten.

Before he could locate that stack, a different distraction provided itself in the form of the elevator door opening. Dipper had arrived carting the new chapter book he had gotten for his birthday. They had read it through twice already, and Ford was sure Dipper had read it at least once more with Stan, but his interest in it didn’t seem to be waning in the slightest.

“Hello Dipper. Did you need anything?” Ford asked, though he privately doubted it. If Dipper actually needed something, he would have asked Stan, and if he needed Ford specifically, he was much more likely to call him up on the intercom than come all the way down to the lab.

“No,” Dipper replied, shaking his head. “Uncle Stan and Mabel are knitting, so I’m gonna read.”

“Alright,” Ford said. Dipper walked over to the table and two chairs Ford kept off to the side specifically for the children, and curled up with his book.

Fiddleford’s knee had increased to a rate of 3.1 kbps, and Ford thought he was going to have to find those calculations after all. Apparently Dipper’s interruption hadn’t served as a sufficient distraction. “You let your kids down in the lab?” Or perhaps it had.

“Not without supervision, obviously,” Ford said, Fiddleford’s tone immediately making him feel defensive.

“Even with supervision, it’s still right dangerous to have children running down here, especially once we get our work started for serious.”

“My children know how to behave themselves,” Ford began hotly before cutting himself off. He glanced over at Dipper, who was most certainly listening in even with his nose buried in his book, and continued in a much quieter tone. “I realize it’s not an ideal situation. I hadn’t initially been intending on giving them the elevator codes at all, but they got seriously distressed at being cut off from all access to me all day.  After what they’ve been through their emotional well-being can be extremely precarious at times, and I’m just trying to keep it all in balance.”

“Shucks, I wasn’t trying to be insulting of your ability to parent neither,” Fiddleford said. “I was just speaking out of worry for the little ones. I am a father too, you know.”

He was, wasn’t he? It was strange because Ford had known Fiddleford was a father intellectually, but it suddenly hit home for him what exactly that meant. Fiddleford had a young son who he cared about just as deeply as Ford cared for his own children. Yet when Ford called for assistance, Fiddleford had still been willing to leave his son behind temporarily to answer that call. Ford was hit with a surge of gratitude all over again. “Have I told you how much I appreciate you coming out here to help me?”

Fiddleford quirked a smile, apparently unphased by the abrupt topic shift. “Only about a half a dozen times, but I could stand to hear it a few more. Now I think before we got interrupted we were talking about the safety measures we needed to put in place while working on this thing.”

They hadn’t been talking about that in the slightest, but Ford was more than willing to take the peace-offering compromise. Especially as he had no interest in returning to their actual previous topic of conversation. “Yes, of course. Safety measures.”


	16. Chapter Sixteen

In Ford’s defense, it had seemed like a good idea at the time.

When he had seen the ad in the newspaper last week for “Mama Misfortune’s Traveling Carnival and Freak Show,” his initial reaction had been to flip past it with barely more than a passing glance. He had had enough of being swindled by money-grubbing sideshows as a kid on the boardwalk, thank you very much. But that very thought had given him pause. It hadn’t been just him getting swindled on the boardwalk, after all, it had been him and Stan together. And they had enjoyed their time spent there, despite the swindling. It had made Ford feel a bit nostalgic, and he had wondered if maybe Stan would feel nostalgic too. Certainly the children might enjoy a trip to the carnival, and there was always the chance there was something real worth studying mixed in with all the fakes. So Ford had suggested they all go when the carnival came to town the following Saturday, and had been gratified when the rest of his family took to the idea.

It wasn’t that surprising that Stan had mistaken Ford’s comment about them all going to include Fiddleford as well – though Fiddleford did have his own apartment in town, he spent the vast majority of his time in the house with the four of them, even when he wasn’t working. Though Ford had envisioned it as a family trip, once the idea of Fiddleford attending had been put out there, he had to agree it was a good one. The carnival was just the sort of thing Fiddleford would enjoy. Then Dipper and Mabel had asked if they could invite Ria as well, and Ford couldn’t very well say no to that. That brought their family outing of four up to a group outing of six, which was larger than Ford had been expecting, but still a pleasantly manageable size.

The trouble started when Ria agreed she wanted to go, but instead of coming with them opted to meet them there with her whole immediate family in tow. Technically it wasn’t the whole family, as her parents had gotten into yet another fight the morning of the carnival, and her father decided against coming after all, and her eldest sister Luisa was apparently in Chile with her aunt. Then of the people who had shown up, the three teenagers – Yolanda, Miguel, and Miguel’s girlfriend Shandra – had immediately wandered off on their own. But even taking that into account, between Teodocia, Carlos, and Carlos’s wife, Teresa, and baby, Selena, their pleasantly manageable group had begun to grow unwieldly.

That hadn’t been the end of it either. At the carnival they had bumped into Susan from the diner, so of course the children had wanted to say hello, and Stan had wanted to flirt with her some. That would have been fine in itself, but it resulted in Susan deciding to join their increasingly large group along with her friend Catherine Cutebiker and Catherine’s son Tyler, who was somewhere between the twins and Ria in age. Ford didn’t even remember how Boyish Dan had come to be a part of the small crowd they had managed to gather, other than it had somehow involved Fiddleford telling stories about the hog farm he’d grown up on which for some reason Boyish Dan had found fascinating.

Fourteen people, thirteen if Ford excluded himself – twelve if he excluded the baby, but given the tantrum she’d been throwing for the last ten minutes it was hard to exclude her – and all of them wanted to talk to him. Oh, not exclusively or incessantly by any means, but it seemed like there was always someone turning to him to ask his opinion or get his reaction or to share some anecdote with him. It was starting to be a bit much.

Still, it might have been manageable if the carnival had at least had some interesting specimens Ford could throw himself into studying. But the exhibits were underwhelming to say the very least. It appeared that Ford’s initial comparison of this place to the boardwalk back home had been doing a major disservice to the boardwalk; they had put in a token effort with their sideshows, which Madam Misfortune very clearly hadn’t.  The first attraction they had seen was called the “gorr-icken” and was literally a silverback gorilla wearing a wizard’s hat and duct-taped to a chicken. And yet everyone was amazed by it.

That wasn’t entirely fair. Dipper had objected very loudly to the obviously fake nature of the creature, and was offended by it in a manner similar to Ford, if not quite to the same degree as him. Mabel seemed to trust her brother’s judgement on the matter, but was much more interested in looking at the animals than she was in the inauthenticity of their supernatural origins – which, Ford would admit, was probably a reasonable reaction to expect from a six year old. Stan was clearly more fascinated by the extreme fascination of the other onlookers, and Fiddleford was just waiting for everyone to be willing to move on to the pig races. Beyond that though, nearly everyone was taken in by the gorr-icken and its compatriots in the freak show.

“Hey Dr. Pines?” Carlos said, interrupting Ford’s mental litany of all the reasons a crabbit was a completely ridiculous creature. Really, even if they were just going to make things up wholesale, they could at least stick to beings that were remotely plausible. “You got any tips for a new dad on how to calm down a crying baby?” Carlos was bouncing little Selena, who was indeed still throwing a tantrum, in his arms.

“I…” Ford didn’t have the first clue how to calm a crying infant. His children had already been well past that age by the time he met them. The only baby he had ever interacted with in any meaningful way was his nephew, and Ford had always been quick to hand him off to someone else once he started fussing in earnest. Ford didn’t understand why people kept asking him about things he clearly knew nothing about. Although he supposed it was preferable to the questions everyone kept asking him, as the expert, on the “anomalies” at the carnival. It was all he could do to stay somewhat polite and friendly with these people whose good opinion he now suddenly had to care about when all he wanted to do was scream at them that everything here was blatantly fake, and were they all morons.

“Fiddleford would know more about that than me,” Ford finally answered. He quickly extracted himself from the conversation, from their group, and from the entire crowd at the carnival, ducking behind one of the tents selling an assortment of carnival food. He just needed a few moments peace; that was all.

He’d not been standing there for long, less than thirty seconds he would guess, when his brother came around the corner. “You alright there, Sixer?”

Ford intended to tell Stan he was fine, that Stan should go back and join the others, and Ford would catch up in a few minutes, but when he opened his mouth what came out was, “Where are the children?” Well, he could hardly argue with his subconscious’ priorities.

“Relax, I asked Fidds to keep an eye on them for a minute while I checked on you, and I told him we’d meet them over by the pig races. I’m not completely irresponsible, ya know?”

“Of course you aren’t. Sorry, I’m just-“

“Ridiculously overprotective of your kids?” Stan suggested.

“I am the exact right amount of protective,” Ford retorted, but he immediately started to worry that wasn’t true. Was he being overprotective of his kids? Was he stifling them or babying them? He hadn’t thought he was, but Stan was the one with the knack for taking care of children, so if he thought it, then maybe it was true. Or maybe Stan was just being Stan and Ford was overthinking this whole thing. Ugh, Ford did not need this right now. “I’m just a little stressed.”

“I noticed. I mean, I assumed you weren’t ducking back here for the fresh, stale-corndog-scented air. What’s eating at you?”

“There’s a lot of people here today,” Ford said, not entirely certain how to articulate the strange sort of exhaustion he was feeling.

“Yeah, it’s a carnival in town for one day only; course it’s gonna be packed,” Stan said. “I didn’t know you had a problem with crowds.”

“It’s not the crowds, it’s the small crowd we’ve found ourselves a part of. It’s all the people that keep wanting to have conversations and being friendly, not that I mind them being friendly, I just…” This was so frustrating. How on Earth was he supposed to say what he meant when he didn’t even know what he meant fully?

“Hey, I get it,” Stan said.

“You do?” That would be impressive, because Ford certainly didn’t.

“Yeah, I do. I’ve known you since before you were born. You think I don’t know by now that you’re not a people person?”

That was it. Somehow that utter nonsense phrase Stan had offered up encapsulated exactly what Ford had been trying to say. “You’re right. I’m feeling overwhelmed right now because I’m not that great at people-ing.”

Stan gave a snort of amusement. “That didn’t come out the way you meant it. ‘M pretty sure you’re really good at people-ing.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you’ve made two whole people already, and the way I hear it that was on your very first try.”

“Stanley,” Ford said, the word coming out as something between a groan and a laugh.

“Hey, you started it.” No he had not; Stan had definitely started it. “Though hey, for someone who’s bad at ‘people-ing’ – which you really shouldn’t be doing at a carnival, Ford; there are kids here – that sure is an impressive number of friends you’ve managed to make here.”

“Friends that _I’ve_ made?” Ford repeated incredulously. There was no way he was the driving force behind the motley collection of people that had suddenly shown a desire to befriend the Pines family. For the past six years in Gravity Falls the closest thing Ford had made to a friend – excluding Bill, who wasn’t exactly a person – was the mailman, and that was only because he was legally obligated to come out to Ford’s home each day to deliver the mail. And Ford had been plotting on and off for years to get a DNA sample from the man to test his theory that he was actually a werewolf, which he was fairly certain didn’t constitute friendly behavior.

“Well I sure as heck didn’t make ‘em. Past ten years I haven’t had a single friend who wouldn’t sell me out for a buck if the opportunity came up.” Stan, much like the children with regards to their past, didn’t like to talk about what he’d been up to during his ten years on the road, and when Ford tried to ask him about it, Stan would quickly find an excuse to change the subject. But also like the children, Stan would freely drop tidbits of information about it every now and again, and in both cases Ford found the more he knew, the less he wanted to.

“You’re right, though,” Stan continued. “We were both pretty terrible at making friends as kids. It’s probably Mabel and Dipper who are behind it.”

Ford smiled. “Yes, probably.” Without a doubt. He thought of infectiously cheerful Mabel, who already had Tyler hanging on her every word, and of the way he had heard Boyish Dan bragging to Susan earlier that Dipper had finally deigned to allow Boyish Dan call him by his nickname – the first outside the immediate family to be granted the privilege, though Fiddleford and Ria had soon followed.

“Anyway, if you’re done being social for the day, then you can head back home if you want,” Stan said. “I can stay here with Dipper and Mabel and Dan can drop us off on his way past home. Technically past his way home, but I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“That’s not necessary. I only need a few minutes alone to re-group,” Ford assured Stan.

“Yeah, sure thing. In that case I can-“

“You can stay,” Ford interrupted quickly. “That is, if you want to, you can stay. I can be alone with you here.”

“Thanks,” Stan said sarcastically, but he didn’t appear to be offended.

“I only meant that you being here isn’t a bother or disturbance.” There was a time when it had been, when having Stan around had been suffocating – though truthfully, while Ford remembered feeling that way, he could no longer recall the feeling itself beyond the words he had used to describe it – but that wasn’t the case anymore. Nor was it like when they had been children and Stan had been Ford’s protector and the only one to not see him as a freak – in retrospect an uncharitable thought with regards to Ma and Shermie at the very least. Ford didn’t wish Stan away, nor did he need him; Stan was just there, solid and reassuring. “You’re just… you.”

“I’m just me,” Stan echoed. “Anyone ever tell you you ought to be a poet?”

“No?” Ford replied, nonplussed.

“There’s a reason for that,” Stan said, and Ford chuckled.

They lapsed into silence for a minute, Ford allowing the sounds and smells of the carnival to wash over him. The lack of effort – and the lack of the nearby Atlantic and all that that brought with it – aside, this place really did feel a lot like the boardwalk back home. “You know, I remember enjoying this kind of thing, carnival sideshows and what not, more when we were younger. I guess because we were more easily impressed as children.”

“That’s probably part of it, but I think most of it is we spent more than half our time on the boardwalk wreaking havoc,” Stan said.

Ford grinned. “We did, didn’t we?”

“Yeah, like you remember that time we decided that we were going to figure out the tricks to all the different carnival games?”

“Yes! You distracted the workers so I could sneak into the back of the booths to investigate. And then I got caught measuring the mouth to one of those big milk jugs, and we got kicked out.”

“Hey, it’s not getting kicked out if you manage to scram before anyone can catch you.”

“If you say so,” Ford said, laughing. “But I guess we’re probably too old for those kind of shenanigans now.”

“I guess so,” Stan said. “Hey I saw a palm reader tent across the way; you wanna go see how badly six fingers messes with her head?”

“Absolutely,” Ford said. Maybe if she was thrown enough, he would even be able to expose her as the fraud she was. It didn’t seem likely, given his lack of success earlier in convincing anyone the truth about the gorr-icken or the crabbit – honestly, a crabbit – but hope springs eternal.

They went around the stall and back into the crowd once more, and Ford followed Stan to the appallingly long line in front of the palm reader’s. The sight of so many people lining up for an obvious charlatan only fueled Ford’s desire to unmask her as a fraud, but the appallingly long wait had him considering abandoning the idea altogether.

Finally he and Stan walked into the tent. It was dim inside, surprisingly so given the sunny day without, and the air was thick with the smell of incense. A strange gnarled crone sat at a rickety table. In the back corner of the tent there was a tall cage that appeared to be full of severed hands, but after a moment Ford dismissed that notion as the light playing tricks on him. The hands must have been fake, or perhaps something else entirely he was merely mistaking for hands in the gloom.

“Ooo, I see I have double trouble,” the crone said in a scratchy voice.

“Nah, he’s the one who wants his palm read; I’m just here to watch,” Stan said, taking up a position against the left wall of the tent.

“I see. Well lucky for you, I don’t mind an audience,” the crone said.

Stan made a strangled sound. Ford looked over at him, but he didn’t appear to be in undue distress, and he merely motioned for Ford to take his seat. Maybe the smell of the incense was getting to him; it was rather strong.

Ford sat down at the table and the old crone immediately grabbed his hand. “What took you so long, Sixer?”

Ford shot an accusing glare at Stan, who held his hands up defensively. “I never told her anything; I don’t even know this woman.”

“Ah, but I know you, Stan Pines. Or should I call you Stanley? Or Lee? Or Steve Pinington? Or Stetson Pinefield? Or Hal Forester? Or Andrew “8-Ball” Alcatraz? Or-“

“Lady, if you’re going to read off my full list of aliases, we’re going to be here all day,” Stan interrupted.

“You have far too many names, Stan Pines!” the crone said, pointing one crooked finger at Stan.

Stan shrugged. “I moved around a lot.” Ford looked down at the table. Stan had moved around a lot, which might have been by choice, but a person didn’t choose to change their name everywhere they went, not without a very compelling reason. Like maybe they had people after them.

“Far too many names!” the crone repeated. “And pray you have no need to add another to your collection.”

Ford’s head shot up to look at Stan again. Ford was still convinced the palm reader was a fake, albeit a fake that did her research, but her words touched on a fear of Ford’s that he had thought had already been settled. If she were warning Stan against changing his name again, and Stan had changed his name every time he moved on to a new place…

“Don’t worry; I’m not going anywhere,” Stan said. His words were in answer to the crone, but he was looking at Ford while he said them.

“I never said you were,” the crone replied. There was something ominous in her tone that sent a chill down Ford’s spine. “We must see to the cards first.”

“I thought you were meant to be reading my palm,” Ford objected.

“Patience, Sixer. Your whole family could do to learn some patience.” She pulled out a pack of tarot cards and began shuffling them. After a minute, when she was satisfied with her shuffling, she handed the deck to Ford. “Now cut it into four piles, then flip the top card of each pile. No, with your left hand; we will come back to the right one in a minute.”

Ford did as instructed, though in a fit of minor rebellion he cut the deck so that the first three piles were only a single card, leaving the rest of the deck in the fourth pile. The crone didn’t seemed bothered by that in the least, though she did gasp when the cards had all been flipped. She studied them for a long moment. “All may yet be very well,” she proclaimed as if she were granting him a reprieve from certain doom.

“Why, what do they say?” Stan asked, leaning in to get a closer look.

“Your brother has chosen his allies well, all save one. Be warned, Stanford Pines, someone very close to you is deceiving you, and would lead you down a dark path of suffering, suffering both great and small. Your only hope is to cast this someone out, before it’s too late.”

She walked back to the cage in the corner and carefully pulled out one of the… yes, that was definitely a severed hand. But it had to be a fake one, papier-mâché or rubber or something of the like. There was no way she had a cage full of actual severed human hands. Right? The crone pulled a ring off the hand and then tossed it back into the cage with the others.

“Here, take this,” she said. Ford was understandably reluctant to take anything that had just been wretched from a severed human hand, fake or not, but she kept shoving the ring in his face until he accepted it. It was strange golden ring with a bright blue stone held in place by little golden hands. It lay unreasonably heavy in his hand. “When this is blue, you may pull through. When this is black, you can’t turn back,” the crone intoned softly like she were reading a spell. Or a curse.

“Why don’t you skip the rhymes and get to the palm reading,” Ford snapped, shoving the ring deep in his pocket.

The crone sighed. “Very well. I’ll need your right hand this time.” Ford offered his palm to her, and she cradled it in both of her knotted hands, stroking it with bony fingers. “My, what good strong hands you have.”

Stan made that strangled sound again. Maybe he was allergic to the incense, and maybe Ford could use that as an excuse to get out of here. But no, they’d already waited this long for the palm reading, might as well see it through to the end now.

The crone read his palm, pulling out a lot of the same nonsense that Ford had heard his mother use a thousand times in her phone psychic business. Of course Ma, when she wasn’t losing her temper, believed in flattering her clients, but this woman seemed to have no problem listing off all the flaws she “read” in his hand. Though personally Ford decided to take the comment about being too smart for his own good as a compliment.

“And then we have your sixth finger, which makes you very special,” the crone said.

“It does?” Ford asked disinterestedly, hoping to move the whole procedure along and be done with it.

“Oh yes, very special.” She began stroking his hand again. “Maybe if you aren’t doing anything later I could tell you about it. Maybe over drinks?”

Ford stared at her in horror. She was _flirting_ with him. In fact, judging from the strangled noise Stan had made yet again, she had probably been flirting with him this whole time. Stan wasn’t bothered by the incense at all; he was trying not to laugh.

“ _No_ , thank you,” Ford said, standing up abruptly. “Come on Stan, let’s go.”

Stan had the decency to wait until they had left the tent before bursting into gales of laughter. Ford crossed his arms and waited for him to laugh himself out. “I can’t believe she was flirting with me.” Ford grumbled. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me she was flirting with me.”

“She wasn’t exactly being subtle,” Stan said.

“Maybe,” Ford allowed. He wasn’t the best at picking up on those kind of social cues. “But _why_ was she flirting with me?” By Ford’s estimation she had at least forty years on him, if not fifty or sixty.

“Hey, you’re a good-looking guy. I mean, you look just like me, so… Plus she clearly has a thing for hands,” Stan said.

Ford scowled. “She probably was just hoping for an opportunity to cut my hands off to add to her macabre collection.”

“Like you’re one to talk about anyone’s ‘macabre collection,’” Stan said. “You had a jar full of eyeballs.”

“Eyebats,” Ford corrected. “And I let them go. Eventually.”

“All I’m saying is, she was a bit rough-looking, but she was also handing out jewelry on the first date. And that thing looked like some mob boss quality faux gold.”

Ford rolled his eyes at his brother. “Here, see for yourself.” He reached into his pocket and tossed the ring to Stan.

Stan caught it, then his eyes went wide as he hefted it in his hand. “Ford,” he said slowly as he inspected the ring. “This thing is real gold. Maybe you ought to reconsider those drinks.”

“Maybe _you_ should be the one to meet her for drinks,” Ford retorted, and felt a sense of triumph when Stan grimaced at the notion.

“No, thanks. She was way more into you than me, and I have never stolen another guy’s girl,” Stan said, his voice dripping with affected virtue.

“Not for lack of trying, I’m sure.”

“Can’t blame a guy for trying.” Stan looked down at the ring again, his expression growing pensive and troubled. “Hey, what do you think she meant about someone close to you leading you down a dark path to suffering?”

“I think being melodramatic is good for her business,” Ford answered. “How many dire warnings did we hear Ma give over the years?”

“Yeah. Good point,” Stan agreed, but there remained a chill in the air between them that couldn’t be entirely accounted for by the crisp October weather. “On the other hand, she might have been talking about Mabel. I mean, I don’t see any suffering for you coming, but there’s a good chance that kid’s going to be the cheerful dictator of the world at some point. Fair warning, I’m definitely doing everything I can to make that happen.”

“Oh yeah?” Ford said, and if Stan’s cheer seemed forced, Ford’s responding amusement was entirely genuine. “And what about Dipper?”

“Oh, she’ll name him co-dictator, but he’ll be too busy exploring the mysteries of the universe with the court smart guy – that’s you – to be worried about doing much of the actual ruling. And I’ll be in charge of the royal treasury.”

“Well it sounds like you’ve got it all figured out, then,” Ford said. He plucked the ring out of Stan’s hand and buried it back in his pocket. “Come on, let’s go find our future world dictators.”


	17. Chapter Seventeen

“There,” Stan said, pulling the knot around Mabel’s neck as tight as he could without it being uncomfortable; he doubted Ford wanted to be constantly re-tying the thing all night long. “Looks great, pumpkin.”

“Thanks, Uncle Stan!” Mabel said. She grinned at him, her eyes crinkling with delight. For her first real Halloween, because apparently their ma had never bothered to get them costumes or take them out trick-or-treating before, Mabel had wanted to knit her own costume. Unfortunately, her and Stan’s combined knitting skills were just about at the level of a scarf, maybe a beanie hat, so making a full Halloween costume was out of the question. Then Stan had got the idea to use the blanket they’d had made – really less of a blanket and more of a Mabel-sized rectangle of white yarn in a stockinette stitch, so they could practice their knitting and purling – as a cape. They’d bought a knight costume from the store to go with it, because Mabel had insisted that was the one she wanted, and no she didn’t care that it was supposed to be for boys. It had turned out looking pretty good on her anyway.

“What about me, Uncle Stan?” Dipper asked.

“Your cape looks like it could be tied a little tighter. Come over here, I’ll fix it,” Stan said. Dipper had also added a blanket cape his store-bought costume, except his costume was a wizard instead of a knight and the blanket was black fleece and had also been bought at the store. If Mabel was using a blanket, then he wanted to use a blanket, and Stan and Ford had both shrugged and figured kids will be kids.

“There you go. Look at you two; you’re freaking adorable. And matching twin costumes always kill on Halloween. You’re going to be bringing in candy tonight by the bucket-load,” Stan told them.

“Let’s just remember we’re not going to be eating candy tonight by the bucket-load,” said Ford.

“Don’t be a killjoy; half the fun of Halloween is stuffing your face with candy until you puke,” Stan said, turning around. He paused when he saw Ford standing in the doorway to the kid’s room. There was something very wrong with this picture.

“Yeah Daddy, I wanna puke!” Mabel said.

“Trust me sweetie, you don’t. Puking is not a lot of fun,” Ford said.

“Ford,” Stan interrupted, before the conversation could get too derailed into talking about puking. “Where’s your costume?”

“I told you, I’m not wearing one,” Ford said, looking about as baffled as Stan felt. “Repeatedly.”

“I thought you were covering for some sort of surprise or something,” said Stan.

“No. If I’d meant to surprise you with a costume, I would have said it was a surprise. I told you I wasn’t wearing one because I’m not. I haven’t worn a Halloween costume since I was sixteen, and I only did it then at your insistence. I don’t need to dress up to take the kids trick-or-treating.”

“Yeah, you do,” Stan said. Okay, so admittedly Stan couldn’t remember Shermie dressing up to take them trick-or-treating during the handful of years after he’d gotten too old to go, but Stan and Ford were still too young to go by themselves, but still. “Heck, I’m dressed up and I’m not even going.”

The thing about living in an isolated cabin out in the middle of the woods on Halloween is you lived in an isolated cabin out in the middle of the woods _on freaking Halloween_. Ford had gotten more than a few pranksters come out this way over the years, not even just on Halloween, but Halloween was definitely the worst day for it. That in mind, they had decided it would be a good idea for one of the two of them to stay home and watch the house, and of course it had to be Stan. Ford couldn’t miss his kids’ first Halloween, even if he apparently thought he could do it without a costume on.

Stan didn’t mind being the one to sit at home this year anyway. Ford’s shut-in behavior for most of the six years he’d been in this town had sent a lot of rumors flying about what he got up to out here in his cabin. Ford was a mad scientist and he performed unholy experiments. The cabin was haunted and Ford was the ghost of the researcher who was inhabiting the new house he never got to move into during life. The cabin was haunted and Ford was a mad scientist performing unholy experiments on ghosts. Stuff like that. Then recently that talk was slowly starting to be replaced by talk of Ford the poor, lonely single father who had spent years trying to work away his heartbreak and who had finally been reunited with his kids – seriously Stan had heard an actual _folk song_ about  it, which was just the greatest thing ever; he’d laughed himself sick. So this year they had the cold front of the old gossip to tantalize and terrify running into the warm front of the more recent rumors to embolden people who might have otherwise been too chicken to check things out, creating the perfect storm to scare the shit out of some kids. Stan was going to have fun sitting at home this year.

“You’re wearing a costume because you want to scare the kids who come out here, so you need one. I don’t,” Ford argued.

“Seriously, at least put on one of the lab coats you’ve got lying around. You can tell people you’re dressed up as a mad scientist; they’ll love it,” Stan said.

Ford frowned. “I don’t want to encourage the ridiculous image people have of me as some sort of Victor Frankenstein character. I am not a mad scientist.”

“You’re not encouraging them; you’re making a joke out of it. They can’t laugh at you if you’re laughing with them,” Stan said. Sometimes Ford got sensitive about the weirdest things. That was why Stan hadn’t dressed up as a mad scientist or Frankenstein’s monster, even though that’d probably be much better for scaring people than the werewolf costume he’d gone with. Eh, he could always claim to be the result of some sort of failed wolf-man hybrid experiment.

“I want you to dress up with us,” Dipper said.

“Yeah, please Daddy?” Mabel agreed, and the both of them looked up at him with big brown puppy dog eyes. Ford didn’t stand a chance.

“Okay, okay, I’ll go put on a costume. But I’m not dressing up as a mad scientist,” Ford said. He left, the kids cheering in his wake. Then they turned those big eyes on Stan.

“Not a chance. You can put those things away because I am immune to them, ya hear?” Stan wasn’t even a little bit immune, but hopefully if he said he was, the kids would believe him and not test it.

“Uncle Staaaan, we want you to come trick-or-treating with us too,” Mabel said.

“And me and Ford already told you I can’t. I gotta stay here and scare off any kids that show up trying to pull pranks.”

“But Uncle Stan, you’re not scary,” Dipper said.

“Well yeah, I ain’t trying to scare you two. But trust me, your Uncle Stan can be pretty scary when he wants to be,” Stan told them. Dipper and Mabel looked at each other, and then they both pulled faces like they seriously doubted that.

Before Stan could get too offended, they were interrupted by a knock on the front door. “Ria!” Mabel screamed, running full pelt out of the room and down the stairs, with her brother right beside her.

When the kids had told Ria they’d never been trick-or-treating before, she’d been horrified and insisted that they come with her this year so she could show them all the best neighborhoods and best houses. Ria had a _system_ worked out to make sure she got the most candy possible every year. She was sure that her system was the only way Dipper and Mabel could make up for years of missed Halloweens and Summerweens. Then she’d been horrified all over again that the kids had never heard of Summerween, and took a solid ten minutes convincing that no one outside of Gravity Falls had ever heard of Summerween.

So Stan got why Ria wanted to go trick-or-treating with Dipper and Mabel. Heck, the kids were all friends, it’s not like they even needed a reason beyond that. What he was a little less clear on was why Teodocia and Ria had driven from their home in town all the way out to the Pines’ isolated cabin out in the woods to pick up Ford, Dipper, and Mabel just to turn and drive back into town. It seemed like doing things the other way around would make more sense, but Ford had said Teo had insisted. If Stan had to guess, he’d say that Teo was trying to keep them apart from her husband; Stan got the feeling that Francisco didn’t care for them much. That was fine, Stan didn’t care for him much either. Or at all.

By the time Stan had followed the kids to the front room, the door was already open and Teo was telling them off for opening the door to a stranger.

“But we knew it was you,” Mabel protested.

“You thought it was me, but you didn’t know. You should be more careful,” Teo said.

“She’s right,” Stan said. He didn’t think there was much of anyone in Gravity Falls that was any sort of threat to the kids, but Stan had learned very well the dangers of opening doors when you didn’t know who was on the other side. “Hey Teo. Good to see ya.”

“Hello, Mr. Pines,” Teo responded.

“I keep telling you to call me Stan.” It felt weird calling her by a nickname when she kept calling him “Mr. Pines” even if she had said he was fine to use it. Teo gave him that sweet, slightly condescending smile that meant she didn’t give a fuck what he said, she was going to keep calling him Mr. Pines. Stan hadn’t decided yet whether that was supposed to be a compliment or an insult, but either way he liked her style.

“Uncle Stan!” Ria cried, running up to him. Now there was another name that Stan couldn’t shake, not that he’d been trying to especially hard or anything. That first night when Ria’d called him Uncle Stan he figured it was all just part of the little show she was putting on to mess with Susan. And then she kept calling him that for the rest of the night, which he figured was just part of the joke. And then she’d kept calling him that every time she’d seen him over the past two months, which was starting to seem a little far to go for a joke. Eh, he was probably overthinking it.

“Hey there, Little Miss Ria.”

“Do you like my costume?” She spun around to show it off. She was wearing a regular skirt and top combo, but over the top she had a red cloak with the hood pulled up, and she had a picnic basket dangling from her arm. “Mamí made the cloak, but it was my idea because see now my candy basket is a part of my costume.”

“Smart,” Stan complimented, and Ria beamed at him.

“And look Uncle Stan, now we all have capes!” Mabel said. “We should go tell Daddy that he needs a cape too!”

“Mine’s actually a cloak because it’s got a hood, but it’s basically the same thing,” Ria said. She pulled her hood down, but she still looked pretty different than the other two because hers wasn’t a blanket tied around her neck. “Uncle Stan’s not wearing a cape though; he’s dressed up like a wolf-man.”

“Uncle Stan’s not going,” Dipper said. Was it bad that Stan felt good that the kid was pouting over that? Probably. Whatever, he was going to enjoy it.

“What? No, Uncle Stan you gotta come,” Ria said

“No, I gotta stay here and watch the house to make sure we don’t get any Halloween pranksters.”

Ria scowled. “Can’t Mr. Fiddleford do that?”

“Fidds don’t even live here, first off. And he’s down in Palo Alto right now anyway.” At some point while Ford had been getting excited for Dipper and Mabel’s first Halloween, it occurred to him to ask Fidds if he wanted to be with his kid on Halloween, and Fidds had jumped at the chance for a weekend off. Smart man.

“But I want you to come with us.” Suddenly Ria put on her sickeningly sweet expression and turned to her ma. “Mamí, will you stay and watch the house so Uncle Stan can go with us?”

“Don’t use those angel eyes on me,” Teo said warningly with her arms crossed. Then she smiled and patted Ria on the head. “Of course I will stay if you want me to, _mi preciosa_.”

“Thank you, Mamí!” Ria said, giving her ma a hug.

So. That had taken a left turn Stan hadn’t seen coming. “You don’t have to-“

“I do not mind. Ria wants to go trick-or-treating with the Pines family, and I want to relax and not spend all evening chasing after excited children.” Well when you put it like that, it sounded like she was getting the better end of the deal.

Stan thought it over for a minute. It seemed a little weird to have her stay here while they went out, but he couldn’t see any problem with it. Teo wasn’t going to steal from them or break their stuff or anything, and all the work stuff Ford might be worried about was locked in the basement. Moses knew she could be terrifying enough to scare off anyone trying to pull a prank on “the mad scientist’s house.” Course, she was more likely to stuff them full of cookies and then pat them on the cheek and send them on their way once they were too confused to make any trouble, but, ya know, whatever worked. “I guess that’s fine,” Stan finally said.

That announcement was met with three cheers and three kids wrapping their arms around his waist in a hug. When you put it like that, it definitely sounded like Stan was getting the better end of the deal.

“What’s all the commotion?” Ford asked, coming down the stairs. “Hello Teodocia, Ria.”

Those two must’ve answered him, but Stan was too busy looking at Ford, specifically Ford’s costume, to notice. He wasn’t wearing a cape, but the flowing brown coat he had on might be enough to make the kids happy, even with the way he’d belted it down around the middle. The coat was a little weird, but it was the kind of weird that Stan might expect his brother to have. The green tunic he was wearing underneath the coat was a little less explicable, as was the big costume jewelry amulet, and that wasn’t even getting started on the elf ears.

Ford let the children exclaim over his costume for a bit – Stan was right about the kids liking the coat, but only after Mabel had made Ford take off his belt to give it more flow – before looking over at Stan. Stan opened his mouth and closed it again before settling on, “I ain’t even going to ask.”

“It’s from my D, D, & More D group back in college. We got really into it and would dress up during our campaigns. We even acted out some of the more intense scenes! I had to replace the pants because they’re a little too snug to wear anymore, but the rest of it still fits,” Ford said, showing not a hint of embarrassment at being a full-grown man with an elf costume just lying around. Well okay then. Stan could roll with that; it’s not like he hadn’t already known his brother was a nerd.

“Looks good on you, poindexter. And hey, knight, wizard, elf, you all match pretty good,” Stan said.

“That’s what I thought. That did mean I had to leave the staff that goes with the costume out, since it seemed redundant with the wizard costume. I suppose I could bring my crossbow instead, though a long bow or maybe a recurve bow would really be more appropriate for an elf. What do you think?”

“I think you do that and you’re going to get tired of carrying a crossbow around all night,” Stan said.

“Good point. I’ll leave it here then,” Ford said.

“Good. Then if everyone is ready, then you should go,” Teo said.

“ _We_ should go?” Ford echoed.

“Yeah, change of plans. Teo going to stay here so you and I can take the kids out,” Stan explained.

“Yes, now go, take the kids, have fun. Shoo, shoo,” said Teo, and suddenly the five of them found themselves out on the front porch, Stan with his car keys, which he definitely didn’t have before, in hand.

“Were we just shooed out of our own house?” Ford asked, looking bemused by the whole thing.

“I wasn’t, because I don’t live here,” Ria said.

“Yeah, alright smart aleck. I hope you know where we’re going, because you’re the one who volunteered our driver to stay behind,” Stan said.

“Of course I know where we’re going,” Ria said as she flounced off ahead of them and climbed into the back seat of the Stanmobile. “I have a system.”

She did indeed have a system as it turned out, right down to the exact spot where Stan should park the car. It was two blocks away from the first house they were going to, but Ria assured them it was the best spot for when they had to get back in the car later to drive to a different neighborhood. She led them to the first house, then stepped aside to let Dipper and Mabel in front. “You two can ring all the doorbells tonight, ‘cause it’s your first time.”

Dipper and Mabel looked at each other. “You can ring the first doorbell, and I get to ring the last one,” Dipper said.

“Okay,” Mabel agreed. She pressed the doorbell, and a minute later a woman with a bowl of candy opened the door.

“Well look at you little cuties. And who all are you supposed to be?”

“I’m Mabel and I’m a knight, and this is my brother Dipper and he’s a wizard, and this is our Daddy and he’s an elf, and this is Uncle Stan and he’s a wolf and this is Ria and she’s Little Red Riding Hood, and we’re all adventurers on a quest for candy.”

“That’s so sweet; it’s two sets of matching father-child costumes,” the woman said.

“Oh, Uncle Stan’s not-“

“Not her dad,” Stan said, interrupting Ria. “But her parents were a little busy tonight, so I said of course I could take my adorable little niece out trick-or-treating.”

“And are you having fun trick-or-treating with your uncle?” the woman asked.

Ria took a few steps back so she could lean against Stan’s side while she smiled sweetly at the woman. “I always have fun with my Uncle Stan.” God, this kid was good.

“That’s great. Now why don’t you bring your basket on over here and we’ll see if we can load you up with some treats to take to Grandmother’s house,” The woman said with a wink. She grabbed a massive handful of candy out of her bowl and plopped it down into Ria’s basket and then repeated the procedure for Dipper and Mabel. She cooed over how cute everyone was one last time, before wishing them all a Happy Halloween and a good night.

“I never got this much candy at that house before,” Ria said staring wide-eyed into her basket as they walked down the drive back to the sidewalk.

“That’s because you’ve never been trick-or-treating with us before. You may have a system, but I’m telling you right now that the best system for getting the most candy is being adorable, and people love matching costumes,” Stan said.

“You’re the smartest person in the entire world,” Ria said, with total sincerity. That was blatantly untrue, but it was kind of nice to hear too.

“Nuh-uh, our Daddy is the smartest person in the entire world,” Dipper said. Jeez, that kid was hell on his ego. “Uncle Stan is the second smartest.” Or maybe not.

“And Mr. Fiddleford is the third smartest,” Mabel added.

“I think Uncle Stan’s the smartest, because he knows how to get the most candy,” Ria said.

“But Daddy knows how to build all kinds of cool inventions and stuff.”

“But Uncle Stan can speak Spanish.”

“But Daddy…”

The three kids all kept bickering back and forth about who was the smarter between Stan and Ford as they walked to the next house. After stifling a few snickers, Stan leaned over to Ford and said in an undertone, “My dad can beat up your dad.”

Ford gave Stan a sly, side-long glance. “So in this scenario you are Ria’s dad?”

“What?” Stan sputtered. “No, that’s not what I was saying.”

“I’m pretty sure it was.”

“No, it wasn’t. Anyway, Ria’s already got a perfectly good… she’s already got a dad,” Stan said.

“Is it that surprising that a child with a less than perfectly good father might look elsewhere for a male role model?”

Stan narrowed his eyes at Ford. “This is payback for all those times I called that creepy palm reader your girlfriend, isn’t it?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ford said, a little too innocently. Stan scoffed. Ria’s innocent act was way more convincing than Ford’s was, and if she couldn’t fool Stan, Ford sure couldn’t. Ford just smiled back at him before turning to the kids.

“I think I can settle this debate,” Ford said. “You see Stan and I are smart in two different ways. I’m book smart, while Stan more what you would call street smart.”

“But we’re on the street right now, so that means right now Uncle Stan is the smartest,” Ria said.

“Okay,” Mabel said.

Dipper nodded. “That makes sense.”

Then they were right back to paling around, their argument entirely forgotten. Stan rolled his eyes even as he couldn’t suppress a grin. Kids.


	18. Chapter Eighteen

Stan was sitting at the kitchen table while Ford made dinner. The kids were in the other room watching a video, and Fidds had left early that day, saying he was still tired from driving back up from Palo Alto the day before after his Halloween weekend with his family, so it was just Stan and Ford at the moment. They had been chatting, but Ford had trailed off a few minutes ago, and Stan had let him be. Neither of them were that great at cooking - Ford was a little better because he’d actually had access to a kitchen to practice in over the last ten years, but he still wasn’t great - so Stan figured if Ford needed his concentration to work on dinner, it was probably a good idea to let him have it.

“I talked to Ma earlier,” Ford said suddenly.

Stan glanced up at his brother, but Ford was still focused on whatever he was making. “Yeah, I know you did. I was the one who answered the phone when she called, and I was the one who handed the phone over to you after me and Dipper and Mabel talked to her.”

“Right.” Ford agreed. “Well, when I was talking to her she asked me something.”

“What’d she ask you?” Stan said, unconcerned despite Ford acting a bit weird. There was a quarter sitting on the table. Ford must have left it there earlier for some reason that made sense to him; Stan never left money just lying around. He picked it up and started twisting it back and forth over and between his knuckles.

“She brought up that it’s been over four months since Dipper and Mabel came to live with me, and she still hasn’t met them yet. Then she pointed out Thanksgiving is coming up.”

“And she wants to come out and visit for the holidays,” Stan guessed. “Don’t know why you’re being so jumpy about it, Sixer.” Or why Ma hadn’t told Stan herself that she wanted to come. “I could be up for that. I haven’t seen Ma in a long time; it’d be good to see her again. Heck, we can invite Shermie and them up too, make a whole family thing out of it.”

“Shermie’s going to be at his in-laws this year; he and his wife trade off. And Ma wasn’t talking about coming out here.” Ford finally pulled the spoon out of the pot he was stirring and set it down on the counter. He turned around to look at Stan and visibly braced himself. “She wants us to go back home to Glass Shard Beach.”

The quarter hit the table and rolled off the edge before clattering to the floor. “Oh.” Stan said. He licked his lips. “Oh.”

“She thought I should be the one to ask you about it.”

“Oh. Okay. Well, I guess the kids got a right to meet their grandma. Both their grandparents. So it’s fine. You guys go, have fun. I’ll watch the house. It won’t be the first Thanksgiving I’ve spent on my own or anything.”

“Stan,” Ford said, his voice heavy with distress. “We’re not going to go without you.”

“I ain’t welcome in that house.” Stan was willing to admit the possibility that Ford was right that if Stan had gone back home with his tail between his legs a few days after he had first been kicked out, then Pa would have let him stay. He didn’t think it was likely, but it was possible. But that had been ten years ago, ten years in which Stan had made nothing of his life. He sure as hell wasn’t going to be welcomed back now.

“Ma specifically said we were all invited; she knew we wouldn’t leave you behind.”

“I bet Pa was real happy about that,” Stan said sarcastically.

“I gather they had a pretty big fight about it before Ma was able to make him see sense,” said Ford.

“She must really want to see those grandkids of hers.” Ma bickered with Pa a lot, and they fought a lot, but he’d never known her to get her way when Pa put his foot down.

“She wants to see you too,” Ford said.

“Not enough to fight for me when it mattered,” Stan spat out, then immediately regretted it. “Sorry, that wasn’t fair. She did the best she could.” It wasn’t her fault that that wasn’t as much as Stan had wanted it to be.

“We don’t have to go; it’s up to you,” Ford assured him. “And if we do go, we don’t have to stay long. The kids still have school on Monday and Tuesday that week, so we can fly out on Wednesday morning, then leave late Friday. The plane tickets will probably be cheaper that way anyways, which is good since we’re getting kind of last minute here.”

“I don’t know. I just…” Ten years Stan had been waiting to go home, and now that he had an actual invitation back, suddenly it was the last thing he wanted. “I don’t know. Can I think about it?”

“Of course. But… don’t take too long? We would still need to buy the plane tickets before it gets too late,” Ford said.

“Sure. A day or two. I just. I need to think about it,” Stan said. “Oh hey look, the mail.”

There was a pile of mail sitting on the counter, in the same place Stan always put it. Normally he let Ford sort through it, since the only mail Stan got was the stuff addressed to “Current Resident,” but he would take literally any excuse to change the topic right now. The first few letters were junk, including two identical credit card offers addressed to Mabel and Mason Pines, now there was a horrifying thought. The next letter was to Ford from the college, Stan set that aside for him, and then there was the package that was, huh. That was weird. “Why is there a package from the bank addressed to both of us?”

“Why wouldn’t it be addressed to both of us?” Ford asked, coming over to take a look. “Oh good, that must be the new checks for the joint checking account. Remind me to call the bank tomorrow morning and have them move the funds over from my old accounts and close them out.” Ford took the package from him and began pulling it open.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about right now,” Stan said.

“The new joint accounts? That we opened? I left the paperwork on the table and you signed it?” Ford prompted.

“Oh yeah that.” Stan did remember signing some paperwork, but he had thought it was for, well actually he had had no idea what it was for. In his limited experience banks always wanted to ask you all kinds of questions and have you fill out all kinds of paperwork. Stan had assumed it was something Ford needed for his stuff for some reason, so he’d signed it. “I didn’t read any of that.”

“You signed paperwork you hadn’t read?” Ford asked, abandoning the box for a second to give Stan an exasperated look.

“Well you had already signed it, so I figured if you were signing your soul over to the devil, then I may as well do it too.”

“That’s reassuring. No, I haven’t signed my soul over to the devil yet, I was just opening a new joint checking and a joint savings account for the both of us. I know you feel a little weird about taking money from me, so I thought it might be easier if you could write checks or pull cash from the bank yourself. Ah, here you go.” Ford finally managed to get the box open, and he pulled out one of the checkbooks and handed it to Stan. “I’ll put the extras down in the desk in the thinking parlor for when you use those up.”

Stan gazed down at the checkbook, his eyes caught on the upper left corner where it read “Stanford Pines, Stanley Pines, 618 Gopher Road, Gravity Falls, Oregon.” He’d never had a checkbook before. He’d never had a bank account before. It had always seemed like too much hassle, and he’d rarely had more money than he could reasonably keep on his person anyway.

The thing was, this didn’t technically fix the problem Stan was having. It wasn’t about Ford physically handing him money, though admittedly he wasn’t crazy about that part of it either. He liked it better when Ford started sticking cash in an envelope and leaving it pinned to the fridge next to the grocery list; that way Stan could tell himself that of course Ford would pay for groceries for himself and his kids, and Stan was helping him by going out to do the actual shopping for him. He just had to ignore the fact that he was going to be eating a lot of those groceries himself, or that there was always more cash in there than Stan could possibly need for what was on their list. No, the real problem was Stan had spent ten years making nothing of himself, then showed up on Ford’s doorstep and went right back to riding on his brother’s coattails.

Ford didn’t feel that way, or at least that’s what he said. He’d told Stan a couple a’ times that Stan was performing valuable services for him, taking care of the kids and the house and stuff, and any money Ford gave Stan was just paying him accordingly. That’s what he said, but anyone could say anything. There were also a lot of reasons a person might say something, and “because they meant it” was never at the top of that list. Ford might say he didn’t mind paying for Stan, and that he thought they were making a fair trade, but that didn’t mean it was true.

But this, this wasn’t just saying something. Ford had taken all his money and was moving it into a joint account with Stan’s name on it. Ford was giving Stan free and total access to everything he owned, and he’d just done it, like it wasn’t a big deal or nothing. Stan looked down at that flimsy little pad of paper and thought, maybe Ford was on to something. Maybe making money wasn’t the only way Stan could contribute and pull his own weight. Maybe all those little things he’d been doing to help Ford out weren’t actually that little. Maybe they were big enough to matter, big enough to count. Maybe not, probably not, but, ya know, maybe.

Stan looked up at Ford and, with that stupid, amazing checkbook still clutched in his hand, threw his arms around him.

“Stan, what-?”

“I want to hug my brother for a minute, okay? Don’t make it weird.”

“Okay,” Ford said, and he wrapped his arms around Stan just as tight.

One of Stan’s first memories, maybe his very first memory, was from back when he had been three or four and had grabbed onto Ford’s hand. It probably hadn’t been the first time the two of them had held hands, but it had been the first time Stan had noticed that when they laced their hands together, every single one of his fingers had been cradled between two of Ford’s. Stan had held their clasped hands up in front of his brother’s face, smiled, and said, “We fit.” Now twenty-some years later and whaddya know? They still fit.

“Alright,” Stan said after they’d finally let go. He scrubbed underneath his eyes; Ford must have been chopping onions in here earlier. “I’ll go to the Thanksgiving thing.”

Ford blinked at him, clearly thrown by the sudden change in topic. “I… You’re sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. But maybe go ahead and buy those plane tickets before I change my mind.”

Ford smiled. “Of course. I’ll call the travel agent first thing in the morning, right after I call the bank.”

“And maybe call Ma too, let her know we’re coming,” Stan said.

“Probably a good idea,” Ford agreed.

There was a loud hiss as Ford’s pot bubbled over, and Ford winced. “I forgot about dinner.” He rushed over to the stove, taking the pot off the burner and poking at the food a few times with his spoon. “I think it’ll be okay.”

“Well you know us; we’ll eat just about anything,” Stan said. He picked up the quarter he’d dropped earlier off the floor and stuck it in his pocket, then sat back down at the table.

“That’s true. Hey Stan?” Ford said. “You know we could do that more in the future, if you wanted to.”

“Do what, go to Jersey? Maybe we oughta get through the first trip before we talk about doing it more,” Stan said. Really, he was pretty sure the once was already going to be one time too many.

“No not that, the other thing,” Ford said. “Hugging.”

“You’re making it weird,” Stan said flatly.

“Sorry. Just, you know, we could, if you wanted to.”

Stan scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah, well. Same to you.”

“Good,” Ford said. There was a long moment of silence. “I made it weird, didn’t I?”

“Yeah you did,” Stan said. “But we’re all a bunch of wierdos here anyway. It’s fine. Everything is going to be fine.” At least, he hoped it would.


	19. Chapter Nineteen

Dipper didn’t like planes. This was his first time ever going on an airplane, and he didn’t like it, ‘cause the plane taking off and landing made him feel sick to his tummy, and when they were up really high in the air it made his ears hurt. Daddy told him that was ‘cause on the ground there was sky and lots of air above him and it was really heavy even though he didn’t feel like it was, and when they were in the middle of the sky in a plane there was less air and it was less heavy and that made his ears all confused and hurt. He tried to show Dipper how to make his ears pop which would make them not be confused any more, but it was really hard, and Dipper couldn’t do it until Uncle Stan gave him a piece of gum to chew on.

Mabel didn’t like the plane either.  The flight was really long and they had to be in their chairs with their seat belts buckled the whole time, except if they had to get up to go potty. Dipper could sit still for a long time without getting bored, especially ‘cause Daddy packed books and toys for them to play with on the plane. But Mabel didn’t like sitting still and even with all their toys she got really bored.

But even though Dipper and Mabel didn’t like planes, they were okay that Daddy and Uncle Stan had taken them on this one. They were all going to see Grandma and Grandpa, and Daddy had said they lived really far away all the way across the country, and Uncle Stan had showed it to them on a map. So they had to go on an airplane to get there because airplanes go really fast and if they tried to drive a car it would take days and days.

Finally after six hours on the plane, which was the same time as twelve whole episodes of Mysteries Five, or six of the Mysteries Five movies, the plane parked at the airport in New Jersey. Then they had to wait a long time again for all the people in front of them to get off the plane, and then finally they could get up and walk off too.

When they were still on the plane the hallway was really narrow, so Dipper had to walk behind Daddy and Mabel and Uncle Stan walked behind them. But once they got off the plane into the second hallway into the airport, there was a lot more room. Mabel looked at Dipper, and Dipper looked at Mabel, and then they both started running.

“Kids, you shouldn’t run in the airport,” Daddy called, so Dipper and Mabel slowed down.

But then Uncle Stan said, “It’s fine, Ford. Let ‘em stretch their legs out a little bit. In fact, I think I’ll stretch mine out too.” Then he started chasing Dipper and Mabel, and they had to run.

They got all the way down the hallway and to the main part of the airport before Uncle Stan caught them. He grabbed them both with one arm each and lifted them both up in the air at the same time because Uncle Stan was really strong. “Gotcha, you little gremlins,” Uncle Stan said, and Dipper and Mabel giggled.

“Stanley? Is that my little baby boy?” An old lady had walked up to them and she was looking at Uncle Stan with tears in her eyes.

Uncle Stan put Dipper and Mabel back down on the floor. “Yeah Ma, it’s me.”

The old lady hugged Uncle Stan super hard. “I’m so glad you’re back. I’m so glad you’re home, safe and sound.”

“What’re you talking about, safe and sound? I talked to you on the phone yesterday,” Uncle Stan said. Even though he sounded like he thought she was being silly, he hugged her back super hard too.

“Hearing you on the phone isn’t the same thing as seeing you in front of me.” The old lady patted Uncle Stan’s cheek. “You’ve grown up so much. And your hair has gotten so long. Much too long; I’ll cut it for you while you’re here.”

“My hair’s fine, Ma,” Uncle Stan said.

Mabel tugged on the old lady’s dress. “Hi, I’m Mabel! Are you my grandma?”

“Well look at this little cutie. I am. Now come give your grandma a hug,” Grandma said, and she knelt down and held her arms open for Mabel to hug her. Then she turned and looked at Dipper. “And this must be Mason. Come, hug your grandma.”

Dipper hugged her and decided Grandma gave good hugs. Not as good as Daddy or Uncle Stan or Mabel, but still good. And she was nice in real life, just like on the phone, and Mabel was smiling, so Grandma must be Good. Grandma was also Dipper’s grandma, and Daddy and Uncle Stan’s mama, so she was Dipper’s family, so he told her, “You can call me Dipper, if you want.”

Grandma smiled really big at that. Everyone was always happy when Dipper said they could call him Dipper, but he didn’t know why. “I’d like that, _bubbala_.”

Dipper frowned at her. “I said my name was Dipper.”

“Stanford Pines, for shame,” Grandma said, and she was looking up behind Dipper where Daddy had walked up. “Have you not been teaching these kids any Yiddish?”

“No, I haven’t,” Daddy said. “But I really think Stan’s who you should be mad at for that. He’s the linguist in the family; did you know he speaks more than ten different languages?”

Grandma didn’t look mad at all, she just smiled up at Uncle Stan. “I always knew my little free spirit had a lot of clever hidden in there. Alright Ford, I’ll forgive you if you come give me a hug. Then we can all head back home to see your father.”

Even though they already had to ride in the plane for a really long time, they still had to ride in the car for a long time before they got to Grandma and Grandpa’s house. But it didn’t feel like too long, because Grandma sat in the backseat with Dipper and Mabel and she asked them a lot of questions about Gravity Falls and their Daddy’s house and their school and their friends and all kinds of stuff. Then she told them a bunch of funny stories about Daddy and Uncle Stan from when they were little like Dipper and Mabel were. Still, Dipper was glad when Daddy stopped the car and said they were there.

Grandma and Grandpa’s house was really different from Daddy’s house. Daddy’s house was all the way out in the forest and it was made of wood and it was really tall and pointy like a triangle. Grandma and Grandpa’s house was like a rectangle squished between two other houses, and it was made of brick. Daddy’s house didn’t look like any house Dipper ever saw before, but this house looked like some of the apartments they used to live in with Mama sometimes. It even had a store underneath the apartment like happened with Mama once, except Grandma said Grandpa owned the store too, which was really neat. Plus Dipper liked that next to the sign that said “Pines Pawns” there was a big pawn like from chess; that was funny.

“Fil’s probably still in the shop, so we can go in through that way,” Grandma said. She looked at Dipper and Mabel all serious and said, “I know your grandpa is going to be happy to meet you, but you two be on your best behavior in the shop. No horsing around.”

“Don’t worry Grandma. Me ‘n’ Dipper only make funny mischief, cause we’re scamps,” Mabel said.

“No, your grandma is right,” Daddy said. “Let’s just refrain from any mischief at all while we’re here, okay?”

“Okay,” Dipper and Mabel said, even though Dipper didn’t know why. He and Mabel did silly stuff sometimes, but it wasn’t bad; Dipper knew because they never got in trouble. It made Dipper remember sometimes when Mama had a Boyfriend, and they had to be really careful and quiet so he wouldn’t get mad at him. Thinking about that have Dipper a bad feeling in his tummy. Not sick like on the airplane, just bad.

They went inside the store and there was a man behind the counter. Their Grandpa. He looked a lot like Daddy and Uncle Stan, except old and really serious. He looked so serious it was a little scary, but Dipper thought that was maybe okay anyway. Because sometimes people who looked really nice were actually Bad, so Grandpa could probably still be Good even if he looked a little scary. Dipper and Mabel thought Grandpa had to be Good, ‘cause he was Daddy and Uncle Stan’s daddy and Daddy and Uncle Stan were the best, so their daddy had to be Good too.

“I’m back, and I’ve got the kids,” Grandma said.

“I ain’t blind,” Grandpa said, and then he looked at Daddy. “Good to see you finally decided to pull yourself out of your back woods and come visit your parents again.”

“I know it’s been a while. Sorry,” Daddy said.

“Long enough for you to forget how to show your father some respect?”

“Sorry, sir,” Daddy said again.

Grandpa made a grunt noise, and Dipper guessed that meant “it’s okay,” even though you’re supposed to say “it’s okay” or “apology accepted” so the other person knew. “Your mother worries, son. At least you’re calling more now.”

“Don’t make him feel guilty; they just walked in the door,” said Grandma. “You just call when you have time. I love hearing from you all, but I know you get busy. I don’t want to be a bother.”

Uncle Stan coughed a little. “Hey Pa.”

Grandpa looked at Uncle Stan for a really long time, then he said, “Stanley,” in a voice that made Dipper’s skin get all goose-bumpy like when it was really cold outside. Uncle Stan slumped down on himself like he was sad, and Dipper thought he had to be really sad. Because even when Dipper and Mabel were only at school and couldn’t see their Daddy for a few hours, Daddy always gave them a hug when they got home. But Uncle Stan said he hadn’t seen Grandpa in years, and Grandpa didn’t even say hi to him. It made the bad feeling in Dipper’s tummy get even worse.

Mabel squeezed Dipper’s hand really tight, then she let go and ran up to the counter and started jumping up and down in front of it. Even though Dipper couldn’t see her face, he knew she was smiling really big when she said, “Hi, Grandpa; I’m Mabel! Me and my brother Dipper and my Daddy and my Uncle Stan came a really long way to see you. We had to ride in the car for a long time, then on a plane for a long, long, long time, and then in a car again for a long time, and now we’re here. Hi!”

Grandpa looked down at Mabel, and he didn’t smile back. “Am I supposed to be impressed? And stop jumping around; you’re going to break the merchandise.”

Mabel stopped jumping. “Um… no? You’re not ‘apposed to be impressed. And I’m sorry. I mean, I’m sorry, sir. I wasn’t trying to be mischiefful.”

“Mischiefful?” Grandpa said. “I thought you were supposed to be some kind of genius, Stanford. Can’t you even teach your kids to talk right?”

“She talks fine, _sir_ ,” Daddy said. “Mabel is six, and her vocabulary is appropriate for her age.”

Mabel had stepped back and back and back so she could hold Dipper’s hand again. Dipper leaned over to her and whispered, “You’re supposed to say mischievous.”

“Thanks Dipper,” Mabel whispered back, then she said loud to everyone, “I’m sorry, sir, I shoulda said mischievous. Dipper told me that’s the right word, ‘cause Dipper knows lots and lots of big words. Uncle Stan says it’s impressive.”

“Mischievous ain’t a big word, kid. Though I guess it’s no surprise it would impress that idiot,” Grandpa said. “Caryn why don’t you take everyone upstairs. I can close up a little early down here and be up in a minute; no one is coming in today anyway.”

Dipper wanted to tell Grandpa he was wrong and Uncle Stan wasn’t an idiot, he was the smartest person in the entire world, tied with Daddy, except a different kind of smart than Daddy was smart. He wanted to tell Grandpa that they would go upstairs and he could stay down in his shop all night and Dipper didn’t think the pawn outside was funny anymore either. He wanted to tell Grandpa that, but Grandpa was big and scary and Bad, Dipper was supposed to be being on his best behavior, so he didn’t say anything. He just squeezed Mabel’s hand tight, tight, tight, and wished he was back on the plane going home.

 

* * *

 

“I wanna go home,” Mabel said. It was late, late, late, and Daddy had put Mabel ‘n’ Dipper in bed a long time ago, but they weren’t asleep. A couple times Dipper fell asleep or Mabel fell asleep, but they kept waking back up. They were in Uncle Shermie’s bed ‘cause Grandma said Uncle Shermie wasn’t coming and they could borrow it, but it was too big, as big as Daddy’s bed at home, and it was too hard, and outside it was too loud and too bright, and the room didn’t smell right. But Mabel ‘n’ Dipper slept in lots of different place before with Mama, and that wasn’t why they couldn’t sleep in Uncle Shermie’s bed. They couldn’t sleep ‘cause they didn’t want to be here anymore.

“Me too,” Dipper said.

“When did Daddy say we get to leave?” Mabel asked. She remembered Daddy told them before they came, but that had been when she was really excited to come and didn’t want to talk about leaving.

“He said we have to stay all day today and all night tonight and all day tomorrow and tomorrow night and then our plane is all the way at the end of the day the next day,” Dipper said.

“That’s too long! Let’s go ask Daddy to go home now,” said Mabel.

“Daddy’s asleep.”

“We can wake him up if we need him, he said. Please, let’s go ask.” At home Mabel could go get Daddy all by herself, even when it was nighttime, ‘cause at home everything was safe all the time. But Grandma and Grandpa’s house didn’t feel safe, and Mabel couldn’t go by herself anywhere, and she couldn’t leave Dipper by himself neither.

“Okay,” Dipper said.

They got out of the bed and walked to the door. There was no one in the hallway when they looked out really quick to check, so they held hands and walked to the room where Uncle Stan and Daddy were sleeping. But when they went in the room, Mabel only saw one bed and when she ran to it, only Uncle Stan was in it.

She shook Uncle Stan really hard and said, “Uncle Stan! Uncle Stan!”

“Mabel? Whazza matter?” Uncle Stan said, sitting up.

“Where’s Daddy?” Mabel asked and she was so, so scared because Uncle Stan and Daddy had said Daddy would never, never leave, but he wasn’t _here._

“He’s in bed asleep,” Uncle Stan said, pointing up above his bed. Then Mabel remembered that Uncle Stan and Daddy’s bed was bunk bed, which meant there was another bed on top, and Daddy didn’t leave them. “Which is where you two should be. Did you have a bad dream or something?”

“Uncle Stan, we wanna go home,” said Mabel.

“Homesick, huh? I’m sorry, kids. I’ve been there, and it’s no fun.”

Mabel shook her head. “No, we just wanna go home.”

“I’m gonna be honest with you, I’m not sure what the difference here is.”

“Stan? What’s going on?”

“Daddy!” Mabel said, and she reached up high to the other bed where his voice was coming from. Uncle Stan picked her up and passed her to Daddy, and Mabel grabbed onto Daddy tight and started crying.

“Mabel, sweetheart, what’s wrong?” But Mabel was too sad and too scared, and Daddy was warm and safe and hugging her, so Mabel couldn’t stop crying even a little bit.

And then Dipper was up on the bed next to her, and Daddy hugged him too. “We want to go home,” Dipper said.

When Dipper said that it made Mabel cry not so hard so she could say, “Please, Daddy. Please, please, pleeeease.”

“Shhh, it’s okay,” Daddy said, and he pet her hair. “You two are feeling homesick?”

“No!” Mabel shouted. “Stop saying that. We’re not sick. We just don’t want to be here anymore. I don’t want to talk to Grandpa anymore.”

“You don’t want to talk to Grandpa?” Daddy said.

Before Mabel didn’t say anything because Grandpa was Daddy’s daddy and Mabel was scared Daddy wouldn’t believe her, but this time it just came out of her anyway. “Because Grandpa is mean.” Not even as mean as a Boyfriend sometimes, and he didn’t even hit them or hurt them, but he was still mean, and they lived with Daddy now, and no one was ‘apposed to be mean anymore; everyone was ‘apposed to be nice and happy and Good, but Grandpa was _mean._ “He said I’m stupid and he said mean things to Dipper and Uncle Stan and you and-“

Daddy said, “Shhshhshh” at her some more, but it didn’t sound like when Mama used to tell Mabel to stop talking because Mabel didn’t know what she was talking about, even though she did know, she did. It sounded like he was telling her that she didn’t have to be sad no more because he was here and giving her lots of hugs ‘cause he loved her. But Mabel still had to tell him one more time to make extra sure. “He’s mean, Daddy.”

“I know. I know he is,” Daddy said, and he sounded really, really sad. “Did he upset you too, Dipper?”

Dipper made an angry face and shook his head. “No, ‘cause he’s Bad and I don’t listen to Bad people.”

Dipper said he wasn’t sad, but Mabel knew Dipper better ‘n anyone else in the whole wide world forever, and she knew he really was sad. So she hugged him and said, “You’re my most favorite ever.”

Dipper hugged her back and said, “You’re my most favorite too.”

Then Daddy hugged both of them. “And you’re my favorite. I love you both so much, and I never wanted anyone to hurt you ever again. I’m so sorry.” Daddy was crying a little bit too now, and Mabel cuddled him super hard. She didn’t want to make Daddy _sad._

“So we can go home?” Dipper asked, and Mabel nodded. They should go home, and then everyone could be happy again.

“Kids. Our flight doesn’t leave until Friday afternoon, and we’re not going to be able to get an earlier one. But I promise you don’t have to talk to your grandpa anymore if you don’t want to, and I won’t leave you in a room alone with him, okay?”

“Okay,” Mabel ‘n’ Dipper said. It was okay because Daddy wasn’t like Mama; he only said “I promise” when it was real, and when Grandpa said mean things, Daddy said to stop it and it wasn’t true. But what Mabel really wanted was to go back to Daddy’s house and Gravity Falls where Miss Susan made them yummy pancakes and Ms. Reynolds taught their class smart stuff like letters and numbers and even science ‘sperments and Tyler played tea parties with them and Mr. Dan taught them how to be manly, and Ria’s mom let them help make dinosaur cookies and Ria showed them lots of fun games and Mr. Fiddleford played them funny songs on his banjo and where everyone was nice all the time. “I just wanna go home.”

“I know,” Daddy said. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He hugged them, and Mabel started to cry some more, and Dipper cried, and they cried and cried and cried until they already cried too much and fell asleep.

 

* * *

 

Stan passed Mabel up to Ford, made sure Dipper managed the climb up to the top bunk okay, then sat down on his bed. He waited there for a few minutes, but it was clear pretty quickly that Ford had a handle on this one, so Stan laid back down. They didn’t need him. Long after the kids’ sobs petered out to nothing, Stan laid there in the dark, staring at the underside of Ford’s bed and feeling very alone.


	20. Chapter Twenty

Ford was a certifiable utter failure as a parent.

How many times had he sworn to Dipper and Mabel that he was never going to allow anyone to hurt them again? How many times had he repeated that promise in his own head as a form of silent affirmation and comfort? How many times had he taken solace in knowing that even if he had no idea what he was doing, at least he would better than Steph and would never expose the children to abuse like that again. In his more rational moments, Ford did realize it wasn’t possible for him to make sure that his children were literally never hurt at by anyone ever again. Abuse he could stop, but people hurt each other all the time by accident, and Ford couldn’t always anticipate that before it happened. Life just had too many variables, and the only ways he could think of to control for them all would be harmful in themselves. So no matter how much he hated the knowledge, he did know that someday Dipper and Mabel were going to get hurt again, and it wouldn’t be his fault. This though, this was his fault.

Mabel’s accusation that Pa was mean had given Ford pause for a moment, but he couldn’t refute it. The very minute all of them had walked in the door to Pines Pawns, Pa had gotten on Ford’s case for not having come to visit sooner. That may well have been the highlight of the evening, since Ford could at least argue that he deserved it. But Ford didn’t deserve to have his choice of career taken to task by Pa for what seemed the thousandth time since Ford had told his parents he was moving to Gravity Falls and what he hoped to accomplish there. Mabel didn’t deserve to be constantly rebuked for her exuberance and have her intelligence belittled multiple times. Dipper didn’t deserve to have his ability to speak called into question or, when Pa had been reminded that Dipper was shy, to be called weak or a sissy or anything like that. And Stan certainly didn’t deserve to be ignored all evening long, only spoken to by Pa when Stan directly addressed him, and even then only being answered in as few words as humanly possible.

The thing about all that was, it wasn’t new behavior. It wasn’t the product of Pa getting mean as he got older. If that had been the case, then Ford could have excused his mistake in deciding to come here. No, this was the way Pa had always acted, ever since Ford and Stan had been children; Ford had just never called it mean before. It was tough love. It was toughening them up. It was being hard on them because the world was a hard place. It was being honest with them because he knew they could take it. It was normal. It was fine. Yet here he was coming home for the first time in five years and suddenly Ford was realizing that it really, really wasn’t.

So the word of the day on Thanksgiving – technically words – was keep the kids away from Pa. For the greater part of the day this was surprisingly easy to accomplish, or perhaps not so surprisingly, all things considered. Pa sat down with them at the breakfast table, but getting his head out of the newspaper in the morning had always taken something of a Herculean effort, one which no one seemed inclined to make. Then Ma started fretting about a few things she had forgotten to pick up for dinner that evening, so Ford volunteered to go to the store for her, and to take Dipper and Mabel as well so they could get a bit of a look around town and work out some energy. When the three of them got back from the store – Ford would have to remember to never go for groceries on Thanksgiving again, especially not with kids in tow – they slipped up to the house through the back way, avoiding the pawn shop where Pa was currently putting in a half-day. After he had closed up, Pa came upstairs and stuck his head in the kitchen where Ma was up to her elbows in cooking and the kids were doing whatever they could to help, but he simply complimented Ma on the smells and the kids on being responsible and helping their grandma, before joining Stan who was watching the game in the living room. Not that Pa acknowledged that Stan was in there watching it with him. Then during dinner Pa was too focused on eating to participate much in the conversation. Given the rough turn the day before had taken, things on Thanksgiving were actually going remarkably well. Right up until they weren’t.

During a break in the conversation – Ma had just finished recounting so gossip about their neighbors that Ford honestly hadn’t followed at all, but it had Stan chuckling – Pa asked, “Caryn, could you pass the potatoes?”

The potatoes were sitting on the table between Stan and Dipper. Conceivably Ma, who was sitting on Stan’s left, could reach over Stan’s plate to grab the potatoes and pass them to Pa, who was at her left, but anyone could see that wasn’t what made the most sense to do. “Why don’t you ask your son to pass them?” Ma said.

“You’re closer than Ford is,” Pa said mildly.

“I’m talking about your other son. Stanley. The one we haven’t seen in ten years.”

“He is not my son,” Pa said, his voice ringing with finality. “I kicked him out ten years ago because he’s a lazy, shiftless, good-for-nothing who was dragging this whole family down, and I couldn’t stand for it anymore. But here he is under my roof, sitting at my table, eating my food when he’s done nothing to contribute. Still dragging us down because you coddle him. You’ve always coddled that boy, and I should have put my foot down a long time ago. I should have…” Ford felt a growing sense of horror and rage as Pa’s tirade went on and on with no signs of stopping. Stan slowly sunk in on himself and didn’t say a word.

“Stop it,” Ford said, his fists clenching under the table. “Stan is not a lazy good-for-nothing, and he is not dragging anyone down. He is my brother, and he is an immensely helpful, contributing member of our family.”

“Oh yeah, your ma’s told me all about how he’s raising your kids for you and keeping your house, like he’s your goddamn wife, not a grown man who should have an actual job and be earning money. Hell your ma, my actual wife, raised three kids, kept house, and still managed a job on the side. But no, you want to let your brother keep leeching off of you even after he cost this family potential millions-“

“He did not cost ‘this family’ anything,” Ford retorted. “It was _my_ science fair project he broke, and-“

The sharp sound of wood scraping across linoleum. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Pa demanded of Stan, who was now standing at the table.

“I might not be a genius, but I’m not a total idiot either. It’s pretty clear no one wants me around, so why don’t I do you all a favor and go.” Then Stan just left, his footsteps receding into the distance until they heard the door slam behind him.

“Shit,” Ford said into the following silence.

“Daddy, you said a grown-up word,” Mabel said softly, and Ford had to fight back a hysterical urge to laugh. Of course now would be when Ford’s insistence that adults weren’t supposed to swear in front of them would finally sink in.

“I did. I’m sorry sweetie.” Quickly Ford sorted through the possible courses of action in his head, then turned to Ma. “Could you watch the kids for me for a few minutes?”

“Daddy!” Mabel objected.

“You promised we didn’t have to be alone with Grandpa,” said Dipper.

Shit. He hadn’t intended to leave them alone with Pa; Ma would be with them. But of course that wouldn’t count for them. They liked their grandma just fine and enjoyed spending time with her, but Ford and Stan were the ones they trusted to keep them safe. He should have realized in their mind “not alone” would translate to “with Ford or Stan.”

“What did you say?” Pa demanded, now rising out of his chair as well.

“You don’t talk to my children,” Ford snapped. He stood up so he could look Pa directly in the eyes. “These are my kids, and I’m raising them the way I see fit, and that doesn’t involve any input from you.”

Despite everything, Ford did love his father. Obviously he did, it was his father. But Dipper and Mabel had come to him in the middle of the night and cried themselves to sleep last night because of things their grandpa had said to them, and now Stan had been all but kicked out of his childhood home for the second time and was who knew where. So yes, Ford loved his father, but he would cheerfully punch Filbrick in the face if he ever hurt Ford’s family again.

For a minute it seemed like it might come to that, Pa glaring at Ford and Ford for once refusing to back down. Then Ma said in a quiet, pained voice, “Fil.”

Pa’s eyes snapped away from Ford over to Ma. “Fine. You’re the one who insisted on having them here; you can deal with it. And as for you Stanford, you had the potential to make millions, and all I ever tried to do was shape you up so you would make something of yourself. But if you’d rather play house with your brother and raise a couple of disappointments, then fine. You never wanted to listen to me anyway.” He walked out of the room.

“Ford, you know your pa don’t mean-“

“Can we not?” Ford said, not looking at her.

“You’re upset. We can talk about it later,” said Ma.

Ford rubbed his forehead and let out a gusty sigh. “Fine, later then.” Though honestly never was sounding better to him right now. “Can you just watch the kids for me for a few minutes while I go check on Stan?”

“Of course,” she said.

“Dipper, Mabel, are you both alright staying here with your grandma for a few minutes?” Ford asked. The kids nodded.

“Daddy, did Uncle Stan really leave?” Mabel asked, a warble in her voice.

“No. I don’t think so.” It was different now. Stan wouldn’t just leave. He wouldn’t.

He hadn’t. Ford found him after less than a minute of searching, sitting on the edge of the sidewalk out in front of the pawn shop. Stan didn’t turn to look at Ford, even though Ford was sure Stan must have heard him coming or even after Ford had stood there for at least a solid minute wrestling with his words. Finally Ford sat down on the sidewalk next to him, close enough to touch, but not actually touching. He lifted his arm up, but ultimately only used it to rub the back of his neck before dropping his hand back down in his lap. “I’m sorry.”

“I know you are,” Stan said. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine. I never would have brought the science fair up if Pa hadn’t first, and I was only trying to tell him how ridiculous it is for him to act like he has any right to hold a grudge when I’ve already forgiven you for your part in that whole debacle. That’s all I meant. I do want you around. You’re my brother; obviously I do.”

“Yeah, I know,” Stan said. “I was just upset and saying stuff. Fuck if I know why you want me around, but you’ve said it enough times that it’s gotten through even my thick skull. You even did the whole jumping in front of the hunter act for me just now with Pa and everything.”

“I did what?” Was that some kind of saying Ford wasn’t familiar with? Stan always had been much more in tune with current slang than Ford was.

“Ya know, like from that movie we took the kids to see. There’s the part at the end when the hunter is going to shoot the fox, and then the dog jumps in between them. Course, I’ve never rescued you from a bear, so I guess it’s not just like our lives. It’s just like our lives in a way.”

Oh. Ford hadn’t considered the movie that way at all, but now that Stan had said it, it did make sense. “You saved me from having to face being a single parent all on my own. It’s a metaphorical bear.”

Stan scoffed. “Metaphorical bears don’t count. And even if they do, that’s not a metaphorical bear.”

“Well that’s going to have to do, because unfortunately I have no plans to go bear-baiting just so you can live out a children’s story,” Ford told him with a playful shove. “Besides you were right about that movie anyway; the ending was terrible.”

Stan finally gave a genuine smile at that. Not a big one, but genuine. “Are you going to be okay?” Ford asked.

“Yeah, I told you I’m fine,” Stan said. “It’s not like any of that stuff Pa was saying was wrong or anything. And sure, maybe he made me feel like shit with the way he said it, but, ya know, him and everyone else in the world sooner or later. It’s fine.”

Ford’s vehement protests that Pa wasn’t right about Stan in the slightest died on his lips. “Did I ever make you feel like that?” he asked, small and uncertain.

Without even seeming to be aware he was doing it, Stan glanced over his shoulder. Ford followed his gaze and realized this was probably almost the exact vantage point Stan had had ten years ago when he’d looked up at Ford in the window and begged him not to let Pa kick him out. When Ford had closed the curtains on Stan and turned away. Oh. What a stupid question.

“Don’t freak out on me, Sixer,” Stan said, giving Ford a light punch to the arm. “I get it now. You weren’t trying to tell me you thought I deserved to be kicked to the curb because of what happened. You were just angry and wanted space for a couple a’ days. I can’t be mad about that. But you asked if you’d _ever_ made me feel like shit, so… And ya know, I’m sure I made you feel like shit too, breaking your project and all that.”

“No, that made me too angry for anything else. It’s hard to feel like shit and self-righteous at the same time. But… did you know I went looking for you once?”

Stan looked utterly shocked by the very notion. “No. I, uh… I didn’t know that.”

“Well I did.” Ford looked down at his lap, where he was anxiously twisting his fingers together. “I told you before that when Pa kicked you out, I thought you’d just be staying with Shermie or a friend for a few days and then come back. But then you didn’t come to school and no one had seen you since that night and I was angry, but that doesn’t mean the thought of you lying dead in the gutter somewhere didn’t terrify me. So that Friday after school I went looking in all the places I thought you might be and asking around to see if anyone knew where you were, trying to find you. I didn’t, obviously. When I got home that evening Ma was finally looking happy for the first time in a week, and she told me you’d called earlier to let her know you were okay. So I started kicking myself for being out when you called, but then she said that it had actually been while I was still in school. And I…” He trailed off.

“I wanted to talk to you,” Stan said. “I wanted to talk to you so bad, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to take it if I asked and you refused to pick up the phone. So I decided not to risk it.”

Ford forced himself to look up and smile at his brother. “I figured it must have been something like that. At the time, however, I just thought that was proof you had decided if I didn’t want to go treasure hunting with you, then I wasn’t worth sticking around for. That’s when I knew you weren’t coming back. That was the part that made me feel like shit.” He shook himself. “But that’s all in the past.”

“Exactly,” Stan said vehemently. “It’s in the past so let’s leave it there and talk about something less depressing. The plague, for example.”

“Did you want to get a job?” Ford asked quickly.

“I… what?”

“Look, all that stuff Pa was saying about you is not true. The things you do to contribute matter, and they don’t matter any less or make you any less of a man because you don’t get a paycheck for doing them. That’s the truth, Stan. But would it make you, that is, did you want to get a job?”

“I thought you didn’t want me to work because you wanted me to be in charge of watching the kids full-time,” Stan said.

“I did want that. I do. But I also don’t want you to feel like Pa is right about you. If that means you need to get a job, then you should. We can figure the rest out from there.”

“It would be nice to have a job,” Stan said. “I guess I believe you about me contributing and all, mostly, more or less, but it’s not the same as getting a paycheck. That’s something real I can point to and say, that’s the money that I earned right there and that’s the stuff I bought with my money, ya know?”

“I can understand that,” Ford said. Money had never been important to him in that way, but he could understand it.

“Except, it’s also nice taking care of the kids all day. I never even have to drop everything when they need me, because being there for them when they need me is my everything. I like knowing that they know they can depend on me. And then a few days ago their teacher started trying to sweet talk me into becoming a parent volunteer. An uncle volunteer, I guess. And if I decided I wanted to, I could just do that. Just say, yeah sure I’ll come to school and help the kids finger paint or whatever – I haven’t exactly gotten all the details on it yet – when did you need me?”

“So what do you want to do?” Ford asked.

“I think, well I think I’ll probably change my mind in a few years when the kids get too cool to hang out with their weird uncle all the time, but for right now maybe I’ll just stick with watching the kids. I like doing it. And ya know, I think I’m good at it too,” Stan said.

“You’re _great_ with the kids,” Ford assured him. “Dipper and Mabel adore you, and what’s more they trust you, which isn’t an easy thing for them. You know that if anything were to ever happen to me-“

“Hold up there, Ford. You’re not allowed to talk about yourself dying. Nobody’s dying, okay?”

“Okay. Well then if I ever, I don’t know, got stuck in some other dimension for a prolonged period of time, then you’re the only one I would trust to take care of the kids while I was gone.”

“Good,” Stan said, his voice thick with emotion. He cleared his throat. “Good. ‘Cause if you did try to leave them with someone else, I would kidnap them anyway and flee to Canada or something. Probably have to kidnap Fidds too, if I’m supposed to be finding a way to rescue you from another dimension.”

By any objective perspective, Stan threatening to kidnap his kids and his friend should be horrifying. Ford grinned. “Good. I’m glad to know that even in the worst case scenario you wouldn’t let the kids wind up back here with Pa.”

Stan scoffed. “I’d let those kids go back to their ma before I let Pa have them.”

Utter. Silence. Stan licked his lips. “I just said that, didn’t I?”

“You did,” Ford agreed faintly.

“I didn’t… look, I know what Steph put them through was way worse than anything we dealt with. Pa’s a little rough around the edges, but he never hit us or… well, he never hit us. I only meant that Steph eventually realized she wasn’t good enough for the kids and gave them to someone else that was. Pa’s never going to do that. That’s all I meant. I ain’t saying he was abusive or anything.”

“Maybe you should,” Ford said. With growing conviction, he continued. “You’re right he didn’t hit us, but you heard the way the kids were crying last night after only one evening with him. And the things he said to us growing up, the things he said to you just now, I would never say things like that to Dipper or Mabel. I don’t think any parent should say things like that to their kids. So, maybe he was-“

“Don’t,” Stan interrupted. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not?” Ford asked. “It’s true. I think it’s true.”

“Because if that’s what he was, then what does that make us? Victims? I can’t be a victim, Ford, not again, not anymore.”

“No one’s going to think any less of you for it,” Ford said. “You don’t think any less of Dipper and Mabel for what they went through.”

“Yeah, but they’re little kids.”

“So were we.”

“Yeah, we _were_. But you heard Pa earlier, I’m a grown man now. But when he started talking about me like that, I couldn’t say anything. I couldn’t do anything but sit there.” Stan sighed and slumped in on himself. “Whatever I was back when we were kids, I still am. And that can’t be a victim. I just. I can’t.”

“Okay,” Ford said. He wrapped his arm around Stan’s shoulders and pulled his brother close. “Okay. How about we say he was less than ideal.” Stan knew what those words meant; it was the same short-hand they used to refer to Steph’s behavior when they thought Dipper and Mabel might overhear or when talking with people they didn’t want to give the full sordid story to. So Stan had to know what they meant, but in this case Ford thought the words used were more important than the meaning.

“Okay. Less than ideal. I can live with that,” Stan said.

“You shouldn’t have to.” No one should have to. “I’m sorry I ever thought coming back here was a good idea,” Ford said.

“You didn’t. You thought it was a terrible idea, same as I did,” Stan said. “We both just let ourselves think that they’re family; it couldn’t be that bad.”

“Instead it was worse,” said Ford. He sighed. “I really hate this house.”

“I hate this whole goddamn state,” Stan retorted. “Except Ma, she’s alright.”

Personally, Ford was still a bit angry with Ma for trying to stick up for Pa earlier, and so he said nothing. The two of them sat in silence for a long while, breathing in the night air thick with the smell of exhaust fumes and concrete and the distant tang of the ocean. Ford missed the sharp scent of evergreen trees. Eventually he let his arm slip down, instead leaning into his brother and letting his head rest on his shoulder. Stan brought his arm up and gave Ford’s shoulder a squeeze. It was nice, having someone to lean on.

“You know what I wish?” Ford asked.

“For a piece of pumpkin pie?” Stan guessed.

That answer was so absurdly prosaic, Ford couldn’t help but laugh. “A piece of pie?”

“Hey, I’m hungry. I didn’t exactly have the stomach for much at dinner.”

Ford’s heart clenched. “When you put it like that, I guess pumpkin pie sounds good too. But no.” As they had been sitting outside talking the sky had gotten steadily darker. By this time in the evening at home, the sky would be an explosion of twinkling lights against an inky black backdrop, with more to come as the night grew deeper. Here in Glass Shard Beach, Ford couldn’t see more than a handful or two of stars in the sickly yellow-grey sky. “What I really want is to go home.”

“That makes four of us.”

The door opened behind them, and they both startled, but it was just Ma. “Where are the kids?” Ford asked.

“Upstairs in the kitchen. They didn’t want to be dragged away from the phone.” Ma gave them both a look like she was amused by something. “A Little Miss Ria called, said Dr. Ford and Uncle Stan promised to call her on her birthday.”

“We did promise that; I can’t believe we forgot,” Ford jumped up and brushed himself off.

“Speak for yourself. I was planning on calling her after dinner.”

“Well it looks she beat you to it,” Ford said, and then he reached down to offer his brother a hand back up.

*~*~*

Once again Stan was woken up in the middle of the night by two kids sneaking in his room, though this time they skipped the shoulder shaking and went straight to the climbing on top of him. “Can I help you with something?”

“No,” Mabel said blithely as she settled herself between him and the wall.

Dipper clambered in next to his sister. “We’re going to sleep with you tonight because we don’t want you to be sad anymore.” Oh.

“And Uncle Stan, you know what else?” Mabel said. “I think you’re really impressive.”

These kids. “Thanks,” he said. “I… Thanks.”

They said they wanted to sleep with him, but Stan would have to be blind not to notice how restless they were, or the way their gazes kept darting up to the top bunk. And hey, they were little kids who’d had a rough couple of days and wanted their dad. Stan wasn’t going to get upset about that. He was going to be a good uncle and let them go cuddle up to Ford like they wanted to. Dammit.

“Ford, wake up,” Stan said, climbing out of bed.

“What’s going on?” Ford asked.

“Get down here. And I swear, if you make it weird this time…”

Ford clambered down to the floor just as Stan had finished scooping up Mabel and settling her on his hip. “Okay, grab Dipper and let’s go,” Stan instructed.

Ford did as Stan asked, then followed Stan out to the hallway. “Are we fleeing into the night?” Ford said. “Because I’m oddly okay with that, but we should grab our things first. And maybe leave Ma a note to let her know where were going.”

“Leave a note? I really don’t think you get the whole ‘fleeing into the night’ concept,” Stan said. And he should know; he was an expert on it. “No, we’re not fleeing.”

“Then what are we doing?” Ford asked.

Stan pushed open the door to Shermie’s room, and Mabel gripped his neck tighter. “A little faith here, sweetie, okay?” Stan said, bouncing her a little. The double bed was looking just as small as Stan was picturing it in his mind, but they could make it work. “Ford you get on the left side, I’ll get the right, and the kids can be in the middle.”

Thankfully Ford didn’t question it, and Dipper and Mabel were as pleased as Stan had expected them to be, snuggled in between the two of them. “This is the best idea ever,” Mabel said. “I love you, Uncle Stan.”

“Love you too, and you, Dipper.” Stan paused. “I love you too, Ford.”

“You’re making it weird,” Ford said with a teasing lilt. Stan smacked him with a pillow. Ford laughed. “I love you too, knucklehead.”


	21. Chapter Twenty-One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very short chapter this time, but as soon as I finished writing this scene I realized it really need to stand alone.

One good thing about the mess last night was nobody was pretending anymore that Pa wanted them around or that they wanted to be around Pa. Well, nobody except Ma, but Stan wasn’t sure she was pretending. Even back when they had been kids, she had always been the one trying to smooth things over and make everyone get along, reassuring them that no matter what Pa said, he really did love them and want the best for them. Honestly, Stan wasn’t mad about it. He was her husband, and no matter what shit he pulled or how much they fought, she wanted to stick up for him; Stan could understand that. He just really didn’t want to hear it right now. Luckily, neither did Ford. The one time that day she’d tried to start in on it, Ford had given her this look that was about as tired of the whole thing as Stan felt, and said, “Later.” Ma had kind of fluttered a bit, then agreed.

So because they weren’t pretending anymore, they didn’t see any reason to spend any more time at the house than they had to. The four of them plus Ma went to the place next door to get Belgian waffles for breakfast, then spent the day showing Dipper and Mabel the important places from when Stan and Ford had been growing up – all of them they could, since neither of them said it, but they were both pretty sure there wasn’t going to be any other opportunities in the future. Of course, Glass Shard Beach being Glass Shard Beach, there wasn’t all that much in the way to show the kids, especially with it being November and the boardwalk being closed and it being too cold to spend much time at the beach. Still, they took the kids to get more of the salt water taffy Ma had sent them as a birthday present, and to the cave where they’d found the Stan o’ War and pushed them on the swing set for a while and even went hunting for the Jersey devil – all the good stuff. But even the good stuff looked smaller and dingier than Stan remembered it being, and he sort of agreed with the kids and the way they were asking just about every thirty minutes if it was time to leave to go back home yet.

Finally, Ma drove them back to the house for a stopover on the way to the airport. She pulled up out front so Stan and Ford could run inside and grab the bags they’d packed that morning, and Ma and the kids waited in the car. It should have been a quick in and out, but when they were leaving with the bags, Ford suddenly stopped at the bottom of the stairs.

“Something wrong?” Stan asked. “You’re kind of blocking the stairway.”

Ford didn’t answer right away, just stood there for a minute. Right before Stan could decide to ask him again or try putting a hand on his shoulder or something, Ford said, “No. I, uh…” He clenched his fists and quickly unclenched them. “Yeah, I’m going to go say good-bye to Pa. I’ll meet you outside.”

“Oh.” Stan glanced over his shoulder at the door out to the alleyway beside the house, then back to the door into the pawn shop where Ford was already headed. “Wait up. I’ll go with you.”

Ford paused. “No, it’s okay; you don’t have to come. Just go out the back way, and I’ll be out in a minute. It’s fine.”

“I know I don’t have to, but I need to…” What? He didn’t know. He just knew that door up there was calling him the same way it was probably calling Ford. “I need to.”

Ford looked him up and down for a long minute, his lips pressed tight. “Yeah, okay. We’ll go together.” And together, they walked through the door.

“Pa?” Ford said. The door to the stairwell opened out right in front of the left side of the counter, so Pa could see them the minute they walked through. He didn’t look like he expected to see them there, but he didn’t look surprised either. He just stood there, impassive and stoic, same as he always was. “We’re about to head out to the airport, and we just wanted to say goodbye.”

Pa grunted. “Fine. You can tell those kids of yours I said goodbye. And make sure you call every couple a’ weeks; your ma don’t need to be worrying about you.”

“Of course. Bye Pa.” Ford walked to the front of the shop, then paused with his hand on the doorknob. “Stan?”

Stan was still standing just inside the shop, looking at Pa. After a minute, Pa turned to look back at him, giving Stan a long, hard stare that made Stan’s insides want to shrivel up. “You got something to say to me, boy?”

For a very long time, Stan had been trying to do anything he could think of to make Pa impressed with him. For the last ten years that meant trying to make millions, but even before that, Stan had always been searching for just the right thing to do to impress Pa. Because even though Stan never said it to him, because men weren’t supposed to say emotional, sissy things like that, Pa was still Pa was Stan’s _dad_ , and Stan loved him. And even after last night, Stan still wished he could find just the perfect words to say to make Pa stand up a little straighter and look at Stan, a little bit surprised and a lot proud, and say “I’m impressed.”

Except, Mabel was already impressed with Stan. She’d said so right to his face last night. And Dipper never hesitated to call Stan the smartest person in the entire world, tied with Ford. And Stan had lost track of how many people Ford had told that Stan could speak a bunch of different languages, like he was bragging on Stan or something. They were impressed with him, and maybe, if he let it, that could be enough.

There was another part of Stan that really, really hated Pa. A part of him that wanted to scream and shout and rage and tell Pa he was wrong about Stan. That Stan was worthwhile and all the things Pa had ever said about him, to him were not okay. That kicking him out of the house wasn’t okay. Stan would even be willing to use the a-word, if that would be enough to make Pa sit up and listen for once. But Stan looked at Pa’s foreboding expression, and all those words died in his throat.

Then Stan realized something. It didn’t matter. There were no perfect words, good or bad, that could possibly make a difference. Pa was never going to change. Stan could go on loving him and hating him until the sun blew up and burned them all to ash, and it still wouldn’t matter. _Nothing_ was ever going to change.

“No, sir,” he said, polite, quiet, resigned, but not defeated, not quite. “I’ve got nothing left to say to you.” And then Stan, who had never known when to fold them, had never been able to just stop, had never listened to that little voice inside him telling him to quit while he was ahead, turned around, and walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Baby I have been here before  
> I know this room, I've walked this floor  
> I used to live alone before I knew you  
> I've seen your flag on the marble arch  
> Love is not a victory march  
> It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah"
> 
> -Leonard Cohen, "Hallelujah"


	22. Chapter Twenty-Two

_“Fun vacation?” There was an ironic note to Bill’s voice when he asked that, making it clear that he well knew it hadn’t been._

_“Horrible,” Stanford said. The physical jet lag he’d been feeling after the long trip home earlier that evening - the second such trip in three days - had dissipated as soon as he entered the mindscape, but an emotional jet lag remained. “It’s not fun to realize that not only is your father less than ideal, he’s, well, less than ideal.” Stan wasn’t around to hear Ford say the abusive, obviously, but they agreed not to use that word, so Ford wouldn’t unless and until Stan changed his mind._

_“Family,” Bill said, rolling his eye - an almost comically exaggerated gesture on a being with just one giant eye. “Who needs them? I haven’t talked to my family in eons.”_

_Honestly, Ford had never considered the notion of Bill having a family before. It sat a little odd in his head, though he supposed not any odder than the alternative of Bill having sprung spontaneously from the ether. “I’m sorry to hear that. That is, I’m glad you’re able to keep yourself away from them if that’s what’s best for you,” – and if Bill’s family had anything in common with the deities in the majority of the mythology Stanford had heard, it probably was – “but I’m sorry that it’s necessary. It must be lonely.”_

_“Hey, what are you, chopped liver?” Bill said._

_That was nice. That was really nice. Though Stanford was seeing Bill as much as, if not more than, he ever had in the past few months, Bill had felt more distant lately too. All he ever wanted to talk about these days was the work on the portal, and Stanford missed the conversations they used to have, casually discussing the things going on in Stanford’s life over tea and chess. But Bill had just opened with a question about Ford’s recent vacation, and now they were bonding over shared experiences with family, and Bill had implied, all but said really, that he cared about Stanford. Everything going on lately was only Bill being excited about the portal – which Stanford was excited about too – and Stanford’s own overactive imagination. Obviously Bill still cared about him. Obviously._

_“You’re right about my family,” Bill continued. “I had vision, and all of them wanted none of it. They wanted to hold me down, so I had to cut them loose. For my own good.”_

_Stanford could sympathize with that; it reminded him of Pa’s constant nagging on his choice of career. With Bill as a further example, Ford began wondering even more if he should follow in with Stan’s newfound resolution to cut Pa’s toxic element out of his life completely; he didn’t need that as a part of his family. With that thought came a sudden burst of insight._

_“Maybe the problem isn’t with family, but with our definition of the word. Maybe family shouldn’t end with blood relations but begin with it,” Ford said, struggling to put his epiphany into words. “Stan, Dipper, Mabel, and I all came to live together because we’re related, but that’s not necessarily what makes us a family. We’re family because we love each other” – no, because despite everything and even if he cut him out of his life, Ford did still love his father – “because we care for each other,” – better. “Pa might be my father, but I don’t know that I should call him family anymore. Certainly he feels less like family than Fiddleford, who temporarily left his wife and son behind and put a hold on his own project because I called and asked him for help. Is this making any sense?”_

_“Human emotions never make sense,” Bill replied._

_Stanford chuckled. “Fair. Hopefully I’m at least making as much sense as emotions ever make. The point I think I’m trying to get at with all this right now is even if your relatives are a hopeless case, that doesn’t mean you have to be without family.” Stanford didn’t feel as though he could actually make the offer – who was he in comparison to someone like Bill, even if Bill did care for him? Still, he let the implication hang there, confident that Bill would hear it, and hopeful he would be kind enough to ignore it if Stanford was being far too presumptuous._

_“Thanks, Sixer,” Bill said. “Though if we’re going to be family, maybe next time you can ask me before you run off on a trip somewhere. I could have told you going to visit your parents was a huge mistake if you would have asked.”_

_“That certainly would have been appreciated,” Stanford said. “Stan tried to alleviate some of my guilt by reminding me he was the one to make the final decision to go, but I can’t help but feel responsible for the whole mess.”_

_“Of course you do. Yeah, technically Stanley agreed to go, but only because you pressured him into it. Make sense that you would feel guilty,” Bill said._

_Stanford’s stomach dropped. “What? I didn’t…”_

_“Didn’t mean to pressure him? Sure you didn’t; I know you would never intentionally hurt your brother by forcing him to go back to the house where he was abused while he was growing up. But then we both know you don’t always say things the way you mean to.”_

_“But Stan would have said something if he felt like I was pressuring him,” Ford insisted. Wouldn’t he?_

_Bill shrugged. “Maybe. On the other hand you see like you feel pretty bad about it, and Stanley has always been willing to skirt around the truth if he thought that would make you feel better. Eh, I guess that’s nice of him, but I’d rather just be honest with you.”_

_There was a brief sour taste in Ford’s mouth. Had this conversation not happened for another week, he likely never would have noticed, but coming hard on the heels of Ford’s other realization as it did, he couldn’t help but spot the connection. Honesty, the kind of brutal “honesty” that seemed to serve no purpose but to make you feel terrible about yourself, was the exact excuse that Pa had always used for the things he had said. He was just being honest with them._

_Except Stanford was being ridiculous. Just because Pa used honesty as smokescreen, that didn’t mean everyone else sharing unpleasant truths could be painted with the same brush. Bill was right that Stan had a tendency to gloss over things he thought might upset Ford. It wasn’t even lying really, just putting the most positive spin possible on things, something that Ford appreciated and even needed some of the time. But just because a truth was unpleasant that didn’t mean it shouldn’t be heard. Ford was trying to get better about being clearer in his communication, and Bill was merely pointing out a recent misstep. Stanford appreciated it. Really._

_“Hey, I didn’t mean to make you feel bad,” Bill said. “Yeah, you made a terrible decision taking your brother and your kids to see your obviously abusive dad, but you didn’t know. We all have our weak spots. It’s not like you don’t have anything you can contribute for your family, right smart guy?”_

_Stanford smiled weakly. “Right.”_

 

* * *

 

Breakfast the following morning was a subdued affair. The previous night everyone had been extremely relieved to be back home, but now closing in on twelve hours later, that relief had worn off, leaving Stan and Ford drained, and the children quietly fretful. Each passing moment only served to make Ford feel guiltier, and he finished eating in record time. “Alright, I’m going to go get some work done.”

“But Daddy, I wanted you to play with us this morning,” Mabel said, the atypically quiet nature of her protest making it all the more heart-wrenching.

Ford didn’t know what to say to that, and even if he had found the words he likely would have choked on them anyway. Luckily Stan stepped in. “Hey, what’s that about? You know your dad always works on Saturday mornings. And, ya know, he just went three whole days without doing any work at all. Let’s let him have his nerdy fun for a while, okay?”

Mabel stuck her lower lip out, but nodded. “Okay. Because Grandma and Grandpa’s house was really sad and now everyone should get to have their best fun, and Daddy’s best fun is doing his smart science stuff.”

“Daddy, I want to come down to the basement too and read,” Dipper said.

“And Uncle Stan and I want to come too and practice knitting,” Mabel added. “We’ll be really quiet so you can have your fun too, okay?”

Ford wanted to explain to them they had it all wrong. He did enjoy his work, immensely, but that wasn’t his “best fun.” But if he could finish this portal and prove the existence of other dimensions, then the notoriety and funding that would follow from that would mean they would be financially set for life. His family would never want for anything again. That’s what Ford could do for them; that’s what he was good at. But when he opened his mouth, all that came out was, “Okay.”

Stanford would probably only say it wrong anyway.


	23. Chapter Twenty-Three

It seemed like they hadn’t even gotten fully settled back in from the disastrous Thanksgiving trip – though truthfully by the time a full week had passed, Ford had to admit that any lingering scars would be a long while in fading – before the next crisis struck. Well, crisis might be a strong word for it, even if Fiddleford had hit 4.6 kbps, and that while he was still standing, which was both odd and impressive to witness.

“Terrible news!” Fiddleford cried, bursting through the kitchen door.

All four members of the Pines family looked up when he did, but Stan was the first one to respond. “Morning, Fidds. You want any breakfast, juice, some of that tea of yours in the fridge? I’d offer you coffee, but I don’t think you need any right now.”

Fiddleford, who had obviously been expecting them all to jump up in equal panic – something Ford may well have done had Stan not answered first – was completely thrown for a few seconds by Stan’s calm demeanor. “Uh… good morning, Stanley. No, I don’t need anything to eat; I had a bite before I came over.”

“Alright. Well grab yourself a chair and sit down,” Stan said, scooting over to make a space next to Ford.

“Can do,” Fiddleford said, grabbing one of the two chairs sitting in the corner. The kitchen table was a little small to fit more than four chairs comfortably, so that was all they had stationed around it on a regular basis, but Fiddleford ended up staying over with them after work for dinner more often than he didn’t, so they started keeping a spare chair in the kitchen ready for him to squeeze in. The other chair was actually a folding chair Ria had brought in – Ford didn’t have the slightest clue where she had gotten it, and he was a little afraid to ask – declaring that if Fiddleford got his own chair – never mind it wasn’t actually his chair; anyone was welcome to use it – then she wanted her own too.

“Good morning, Mr. Fiddleford,” Mabel said.

“Morning,” Dipper echoed.

“Good morning, kids. Morning, Stanford,” Fiddleford said. He was looking much calmer now, and was down to a mere 1.3 kbps. Stan had always been really good at that. These days Ford controlled his anxiety with assorted advanced meditation techniques that he practiced on a regular basis, but as a kid it was Stan’s solidly unperturbed or aggressively optimistic or occasionally outright confrontational attitude that had pulled Ford through it. To this day, Ford didn’t know how Stan had always been able to tell which approach any given situation called for, but it appeared he still had it.

“Good morning,” Ford said. “What’s the terrible news?”

“I figured out what the problem with the portal’s power source is,” Fiddleford replied.

“Not for nothing, but isn’t that be a good thing?” Stan asked.

“It might be, except we’ve moved from a problem that’s theoretically solvable to an all-out impossible situation. If we want to power Ford’s design then we’re going to need a Temporal Displacement Hyperdrive, and by my calculations humanity won’t be able to invent one of those for at least another ten thousand years.”

“Oh, is that all?” Ford said. He took a studiedly nonchalant sip of his coffee.

“Is that all?” Fiddleford repeated, back up to 2.5 kbps. “I tell you the plans we’ve been working on for the last three months are impossible as is and are going to need a major overhaul to maybe be remotely feasible, and all you can say is ‘is that all?’”

“No, that’s not what you told me. What you told me was to make the current plans work we need a Temporal Displacement Hyperdrive,” Ford said.

Stan groaned. “Ford. Do you already have one of those lying around for some inexplicable reason? Is it that glowing cube thing Mabel likes to play with?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ford said. Mabel had looked up at the mention of her name, and Ford absent-mindedly reach over to rub up and down her back a few times, acknowledging her acknowledgment. She grinned at him and, having apparently decided the conversation didn’t concern her, went back to chatting with Dipper. “That’s a toy I made for the kids. No, I don’t have one lying around, but I know where we can get one.”

“Where?” Fiddleford asked.

Ford smiled. He was having far too much fun teasing them and slowly drawing this out. “A secluded location I found a few years back packed with all manner of sophisticated equipment. The entrance is about…” Ford faltered. He glanced over at Dipper and Mabel, seated between himself and Stan, looking happy, secure. “…about two days hike from here.”

“Oh,” Fiddleford said, glancing over that the kids too. “Well if you give me directions to this mysterious location I reckon I could go find it and get the Temporal Displacement Hyperdrive myself.”

“No, this place can be dangerous if you don’t know what you’re doing. Not to mention the entrance is rather difficult to find.” Ford wouldn’t have discovered it at all, had he not already known it had to be there, and had been determined to see the parts of the ship that he wasn’t able to access from other entrances he had discovered. Briefly Ford debated with the idea of taking Fiddleford to a different entrance less than half a day’s walk from the house that led to a storage facility, but he discarded the notion. Certainly there were technological marvels in there far beyond anything invented on Earth, and it might be worth their while to raid it in the future as well, but for a Temporal Displacement Hyperdrive, they were going to have to go to the engineering section of the ship, which meant a two-day hike just to get there.

“Look, we’re talking about four days total, right?” Stan said. “That ain’t that long, and I’ll be here with them the whole time. It won’t be a fun four days, but they’ve been through a lot worse. Then it’ll be over and you’ll come back and the whole thing will probably be good for them in the long run. Like going to school was.”

It was a stance that Stan frequently took. He thought it was best to push the kids a little past their comfort zones when an opportunity to do so presented itself, so as to more quickly acclimate them to the world as it should be and not as they’d come to know it while living with their mother. It was a type of tough love, Ford supposed, though he hesitated to call it that since Stan was about as tough as a marshmallow when it came to Dipper and Mabel, and he was always ready with comfort and reassurance whenever they made it clear they needed it.

Normally Ford preferred the alternative tact of allowing the kids to expand their comfort zones naturally and at their own pace. Here though, he didn’t see what choice he had. If Fiddleford said they needed the Temporal Displacement Hyperdrive, then they needed it, and the only way to get it would be for Ford and Fiddleford to go fetch it from Crash Site Omega. Besides, it wasn’t as though Ford’s judgement when it came to good parenting was worth much anyway.

“Okay. Okay, Fiddleford and I will go, Stan you’ll stay here with the kids and it’ll be fine.” Right. Totally fine. Ford sighed. “We’ll leave next Wednesday. Wednesday of next week, obviously, not tomorrow.” That would give them plenty of time to get the necessary supplies together – Ford had camping equipment on hand, but he usually didn’t go so late in the year so he might need to get more cold weather gear, and he didn’t know what Fiddleford had, if anything – and would give Ford time to figure out how to break the news to the children. Plus if they left on a Wednesday, that would have them returning on Saturday night, just before Ford’s usual day off on Sunday.

“What’s happening on Wednesday?” Dipper asked. “Is it bad?”

Ford was going to brush off the question with some vague reassurances until he could come back later with a carefully planned explanation, but Stan answered before he could. “It’s not all bad, kid, don’t worry. Your dad will explain.”

Ford had always been the type to pull a bandage slowly, inch by inch, to try to minimize the pain. Stan wasn’t a fan of this method, calling it too slow – which was pretty rich coming from someone who usually just left his bandages on until the adhesive gave out of its own accord. Whenever Stan had come across Ford taking a bandage off that way, he would reach over, grab it, and yank it right off. Ford found he didn’t appreciate the continued parallels.

“How much do you two know about the project I’m working on?” Ford asked, slowly leading up to it to buy himself time.

“You’re making a big machine that can go to another world, like in the book you read us,” Dipper said.

“Uh-huh, the one with the magic closet,” added Mabel. “And when you’re down we’ll go to the magic world on the other side and beat up the witch and then we’ll all be kings and queens.”

“I don’t think Daddy’s machine is going to go to the same place as the magic closet. There probably won’t be a witch,” Dipper said.

“All magic lands have a evil witch. Or a evil wizard,” Mabel said.

“But Daddy’s machine is science, so I think it’ll go to a science land.”

Mabel blew a raspberry. “I want to go to a magic land. Daddy, will you make your machine so it goes to a magic land with a bad guy we can beat up and be the heroes?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Ford replied. He was continually impressed by his children’s intelligence. They could have hardly missed noticing he and Fiddleford were putting together a large machine after the time they’d spent down in the lab, but he was certain no one had told them the purpose of the machine yet. They had put that together themselves, presumably based on conversations they had overheard.

“Even if we can’t get to a magic world, you could always become queen of this one, pumpkin,” Stan said.

“I can’t be _queen_ of this world,” Mabel said, voice heavy with exasperation. “I have to be _president_.”

“My mistake,” Stan said, shooting Ford and Fiddleford an amused look.

Ford considered pointing out to his daughter that becoming queen of the world wasn’t any more far-fetched than becoming president, as neither position existed currently, so they would both require serious re-shaping of the global political landscape on her part, but decided that the conversation didn’t need to be derailed any further. Granted, the idea of getting out of explaining things to the kids just now did have its appeal, but Stan had said Ford would do it, so he would. “With regards to the portal we’re making, Fiddleford has just told me there’s a part we need that we don’t have right now.”

“And next Wednesday you’re going to go to the store to get it?” Dipper asked.

“Something like that,” Ford agreed. “But this store is very far away and hard to get to. All told it’ll take four days to get there, get the part, and come back.”

“It doesn’t take four days to go to the store,” Mabel said. She sounded like she thought he was joking with her.

“I assure you this one does. I’m going to be gone for four days next week.”

“You’re being silly, Daddy,” said Mabel dismissively. “Can Dipper and I be excused now? I wanna play Battlechutes and Ladderships.”

Ford had been preparing for the kids to be upset by his announcement, for pleading and tears. He certainly wasn’t prepared for flat-out denial. “Uh… yes, you can be excused.”

“Kay, thanks.” Mabel hopped up and trotted over to put her dish in the sink before heading out toward the living room, completely unphased by the prior conversation. “C’mon, Dipper!”

Despite his sister’s urging, Dipper was slower to get up, shuffling over to the sink, then back over to Ford. “Um. You won’t leave for the store without saying good-bye first, right?”

“Of course not.” Ford leaned down to capture his son in a tight hug, and Dipper hugged him back just as fiercely.

“Dipper! Come on!” With a slight hint of reluctance, Dipper extracted himself from Ford’s arms, then ran down the hallway after his sister.

Ford watched him go, then turned back to the other two. “She didn’t believe me.”

Fiddleford chuckled. “Sometimes kids just hear what they want to hear. She’ll figure out you’re telling the truth sooner or later.”

“Hopefully sooner,” Stan opinioned. “I am not looking forward to her having reality kick in on Wednesday night after you’re gone.”

Ford winced at the thought. “I’ll try explaining to her again later. Slower, and with more details.”

“Speaking of details, you never did get around to tell us just where exactly it is you were planning on getting a Temporal Displacement Hyperdrive,” Fiddleford said.

Ford grinned, trying and mostly succeeding in capturing his earlier enthusiasm. “We’re going to go raid an alien spacecraft.”

In the end, Ford and Fiddleford hadn’t needed anything like a full week to prepare for their excursion, but Ford was grateful for the extra time anyway. He and Fiddleford hadn’t needed the time to prepare, but the kids did, because despite multiple attempts by Ford and at least one by Stan, Mabel continued not to believe Ford was going to be away for appreciable length of time. Dipper did get increasingly anxious as the week passed, and Ford thought he at least realized the truth of the matter, but was disinclined to outright contradict his sister’s version of things.

By the time Wednesday morning rolled around, Ford had mostly resigned himself to his communication skills having failed him once again and Mabel not recognizing that this wasn’t a normal trip to the store until after he was gone. It wasn’t fair to any of them – neither Ford nor Mabel would get a proper goodbye, Dipper was clearly upset about the conflicting realities his sister and his dad were providing, and Stan was going to have to deal with the emotional fallout when Mabel did realize the truth. It wasn’t fair at all, but, standing here now just about to leave with Fiddleford waiting and with Stan, Dipper, and Mabel all about to see them off, Ford didn’t know what else he could do.

“Bye Daddy, I’ll see you after school,” Mabel said, as aggressively cheerful as ever.

What else could he do, but just try one more time? “Mabel. Sweetheart.” Ford got down on one knee and took hold of both Mabel’s shoulders. “I’m not going to be here when you get home from school today. Remember I told you Fiddleford and I have to go on a trip for work and I’m not going to be back until Saturday evening. That’s why we have these big bags, because we’re going to need a lot of stuff for how long we’re going to be gone.”

Mabel glanced at Fiddleford and at the two camping backpacks, Fiddleford’s already slung on and Ford’s sitting on the ground ready to go, and her smile started to crack. Ford found himself wondering if perhaps the issue the whole time was not her not believing him so much as refusing to believe him. “Stop being silly, Daddy. I don’t like it.”

“I’m not being silly. I’m being very serious right now. I’m about to go, and I’ll be back in time to tuck you and Dipper into bed on Saturday.”

“But… but…” Mabel took a few gulping breaths and then burst into tears. Ford pulled her in close, fully expecting her to jerk away in anger, but Mabel grabbed two fistfuls of his shirt and sobbed into his chest. After a moment Dipper came to stand right at Ford’s right side, so Ford wrapped an arm around him too. Dipper leaned his head against Ford’s shoulder, and he started to cry.

Stanford was a terrible, terrible parent. Mabel was sobbing like the world was ending for the second time in three weeks, and it was all his fault. What had possessed him to think he was fit to care for children? Yes he was better than their mother, but being better than an abusive, neglectful, alcoholic drug-addict with a string of even more abusive boyfriends was not a ringing endorsement. It wasn’t any kind of endorsement at all. Was every major decision he made going to end up hurting them? He was starting to think they’d be better off without him.

“Don’t go, Daddy,” Mabel cried. “Don’t go, don’t go, please I don’t want you to leave.”

There was the rub. Maybe they would be better off without him, but they didn’t want to be without him, and truthfully Ford didn’t think he could ever let them go. “Shh, shh. I know. I’m sorry I have to go, but it won’t be for long; I’ll be back in just a few days. I’m not leaving you, not like that. I never could leave the both of you. What would I do without you?” Abstractly Ford knew he could function without Dipper and Mabel, that he had done so for twenty-seven years, but his mind refused to wrap around the concept. “It would be easier to live without lungs. I could make myself some gills and a fish tail and go live in the lake.”

Mabel gave a wet giggle. “If you’re a mermaid Daddy, then I want to be a mermaid too.”

“Of course. You and me and Dipper and Stan can all be merpeople and live in the lake together,” Ford said.

“No. You guys can all be merpeople, and I’ll get a cabin on the lake and keep my legs, thanks,” Stan said.

Ford threw his brother a smile for helping to lighten the mood, then motioned with his head to the bookshelf. “Now before I go, I made you two some presents,” he said as Stan fetched them from on top of the bookshelf. Ford had stashed them up there the night before so they’d be convenient, but not readily noticeable by the kids.

“I don’t want presents. I want you to stay,” Mabel said.

“You sure you don’t want your present, kid?” asked Stan. “Ford’s got this thing done up in your style. All pink and golden stars.” It did look a little blinding collapsed flat as it was so that only the decorated outer case was visible. Maybe Ford had gone a little overboard with the number of shooting stars.

“It’s an instant camera,” Ford told her. “I made it myself, though the film inside is just what you can buy at the store. I thought you could take pictures while I was gone so you can show me everything I miss when I get back.”

Stan held the camera out to Mabel, but she hid her face against Ford and refused to look at it. “I don’t want it,” she stubbornly insisted.

Ford gave Stan a hopeless look, but Stan just shrugged and set the camera back down. “We can check it out later. Here’s yours Dipper,” he said, handing the second gift to Dipper.

Dipper went wide-eyed as he took it from Stan. “It’s a book just like yours, Daddy.”

“It is,” Ford agreed, giving Dipper’s shoulder a tight squeeze. “Although your journal is just a little different than mine. The covers on my journals have an outline of my hand on it, but for yours I decided to do a pine tree, like on your hat.”

“And like in my name, Dipper Pines,” he said, which was certainly a true point, if not one that Ford had considered. “Can I write about science exper’ments and anomalies in my journal too just like in yours?”

“You can write whatever you want in it; it’s your journal. I only hope you’ll be willing to show me your notes on what’s happened while I was gone when I get back.”

Dipper nodded furiously and clutched the journal to his chest. “I’ll take lots and lots of notes. Thank you, Daddy. I love you.”

“I love you too, son. And you Mabel. I’m going to miss you both so much.” Ford hugged his children as tight as he could. Maybe Stanford was a terrible parent. Maybe every decision he made was a mistake and his kids really would be better off without him. Maybe, but even so, Ford loved them so damn much and every mistake he made was just him trying to do his best for them. Maybe that didn’t count for much, but it was something. Enough to hold on to.

Even after he finished saying his goodbyes, Mabel didn’t want to let go of him. It took Stan gathering her up in his arm instead for Ford to finally free himself, and he left the house with the image of her burying her face in the crook of Stan’s neck seared into his mind.

“Ready to go?” Fiddleford asked. He had slipped out to the front porch to wait at some point, presumably while Dipper and Mabel had been crying.

“Yes. I’m ready,” Ford said, casting one last look behind him.

“Hey,” Fiddleford said, laying a comforting hand on his shoulder. “You know they’ll be alright without you.”

That struck Ford as deeply ironic, and he suppressed a bitter laugh. “Yeah, I know.”


	24. Chapter Twenty-Four

Fiddleford was starting to think he wasn’t cut out for this. He was thinking things a lot worse than that, but that was the closest thing to a rational thought rising from the mass of panic in his fear-struck mind, so he clung to it; focus on that and not the stench of smoke and burning flesh and. No. Stop. Focus. He wasn’t sure he was cut out for this. That’s what he was thinking about. Maybe he ought to just call it quits and head back down to Palo Alto to work on his personal computer project fulltime. Except he told Ford he’d held him build his portal and he ought to see that through to the end. He could handle that. He could handle machines. Even when something went wrong with a machine, in the end it could never do anything a body hadn’t told it to do. Machines were predictable. Not like the creatures in the forest, great hulking monsters with claws and quills and teeth that rip and shred and tear, and the blood, dear God there was so much blood-

A hand touched his shoulder and Fiddleford yelped and jumped damn near ten feet in the air before realizing it was just Ford. Fiddleford had turned his back to the campfire when he couldn’t bear to watch the dancing flames anymore, and so hadn’t seen him coming. “Sorry, sorry,” Ford said. He held his hands up in front of him in a placating gesture. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“S’alright,” Fiddleford said, willing his heart rate to slow down. He wasn’t expecting much luck on that front – his heart hadn’t gone at a normal pace since what happened earlier.

“No, we both should be more careful; you don’t want to jostle your arm.” Fiddleford looked down at his left arm and blinked at the sling it was cradled in. He remembered now; Ford had said he had broken it in the fall. It certainly hurt bad enough to be broken, whenever Fiddleford paid attention enough to feel it. He didn’t remember falling, or much of anything really. He remembered creature sleeping in their path, remembered Ford insisting on stopping to sketch the gremloblin, as he called it, remembered hiding behind a tree and begging Ford to move along, remembered the hyperdrive in his bag suddenly letting off a loud alarm, remembered the gremloblin grabbing him and looking him right in the eyes. After that…

Ford had said that after that he had tried the startle the beast into letting Fiddleford go by throwing the first thing to hand at it – his canteen. Unfortunately the water within had splashed the monster and had caused it to mutate larger and grow wings. The gremloblin had taken off flying down the mountain and Ford had given chase. He had finally caught it by using his magnet gun on the hyperdrive in Fiddleford’s arms, causing himself to soar through the air and land on the gremloblin’s back. He’d hit the beast on the head, knocking it out and sending all three of them tumbling down into the hayloft of a barn. The gremloblin had remained unconscious for long enough for Ford to get the two of them a safe distance away, at which point they had stopped and Ford had treated their wounds with the thankfully rather extensive first aid kit they had brought with them. Then they had kept going as fast and for as long as Ford had been willing to push them, finally stopping for the night to camp when it got too dark to keep going. Luckily the shortcut they had taken down the mountain did at least mean they would reach town by midmorning the next day, at which point their first stop would be the hospital to get Fiddleford’s arm properly seen to.

Fiddleford didn’t remember any of that, not until some point after they had already stopped for the night. He remembered looking into the gremloblin’s eyes and then… carnage and torture, destruction and death, the sounds, the smells, horrible, choking him, like nothing he’d ever – no. Ford was talking right now, saying they needed to have care with Fiddleford’s arm. Focus.

“Suppose you’re right,” Fiddleford agreed. With effort he refocused his gaze on Ford, doing his level best to ignore the flames licking greedily at the air behind him.

Ford frowned. Fiddleford knew he wasn’t acting normal, but normal was beyond him at the moment. At least he wasn’t babbling in terror like Ford said he had been before anymore neither. Small mercies. “You still seem…” Ford paused and bit his lip. “Would it help if I showed you some of my advanced meditation techniques?”

“No!” Fiddleford near shouted, then he forced himself to bring it down. “No, thank you. I’m not in the mind frame to meditate right now.” It was kind of Ford to offer; Fiddleford knew how much meditating had helped him out when he had started it back in their second year at Backupsmore. The problem was every kind of meditating he’d ever seen Ford do or ever heard of involved closing your eyes. Right now every time Fiddleford blinked he could see his worst nightmares seared onto the back of his eyelids; he would not be closing his eyes right now. Still, it was kind of Ford to offer. Fiddleford tried to give him a grateful, reassuring type smile, but going off of Ford’s expression, it didn’t come off too well.

“A distraction then, maybe?” Ford suggested.

“Maybe.” He’d been trying to distract himself to no avail, but it might work better if he had someone helping him to do the distracting.

“Okay,” Ford said. He sat down on the log next to Fiddleford and placed a hand on his shoulder. Ford had been a might bit more tactile and easier with casual physical affection of late, since Fiddleford had come up to Gravity Falls at least, and Fiddleford was sure he could guess the two reasons why. He appreciated it regardless of how it had come about, especially at the moment. Ford’s hand was grounding, helping Fiddleford to stay in the here and now and not to sink back into nightmares. “We could talk about… Ah! Tell me a funny story about something Tate did.”

Tate, his little baby boy screaming in agony, his voice raw with fear and pain and- stop. Stop, stop, stop. That hadn’t happened. It wasn’t real. Tate was safe back at home with his mother, and Fiddleford was here with Ford, with Ford’s hand on his shoulder. He was here, and he was going to answer Ford’s question about a funny story about Tate.

Fiddleford couldn’t help the amused snort that escaped him when the full realization of what Ford had asked hit him, and Ford grinned at him. “You think of a good one?”

“Nah, that’s not it. I do have some tales I can tell you, but I was just thinking, if this were a year ago you would have distracted me by talking about work, the portal or some such. But instead you’re asking me to tell you a funny story about my son. You really are a parent now, aren’t you?”

“I am,” Ford agreed. “That is, I know I’m not good at it but…”

It was like a record needle scratching across Fiddleford’s brain, all other thoughts screeching to a halt as he tried to sort out that inherently ridiculous statement. “Who in tarnation told you that?” It was only after he spoke that Fiddleford realized Ford was still talking.

“Who told me what?”

“Who told you you’re not good at being a parent?” Though the more he thought about it, the more Fiddleford thought maybe nobody had. He was pretty sure he’d met most all of Ford’s friends and acquaintances here in town and he couldn’t imagine any one of them saying something like that. Heck, just the other day Fiddleford and the kids had had a banjo sing-along which had included a rousing rendition of “The Ballad of Stanford Pines,” and any town that could write a folk song about what a great parent Ford was wouldn’t have it in them to turn around and disparage his ability at the same. On the other hand, Ford definitely had it in him to pull a fool notion like that out of the air and get it stuck in his head. Fiddleford had never met anyone with an as mixed-up sense of self-worth as Ford. And he didn’t mean mixed-up in the sense of low or backwards, upside-down, or wrong-headed, he meant well and truly mixed up.

“I don’t… there’s no one who said anything like that explicitly,” Ford said.

Fiddleford was not impressed by that answer; he was far too familiar with Ford and his squirrelly ways when he decided he didn’t like a question. “But there is someone who implied it to you heavily.”

“My father may have made a few comments,” Ford said hurriedly. And if that was all there was to the story, then Fiddleford would eat his prototype personal computer. “Look, regardless of who all said what to me, you can’t ignore the facts of the situation. You heard how upset Mabel was before we left, and that’s the second time she’s cried like that in the past three weeks.”

“So I’m clear, you’re saying your evidence for being a bad parent is that your six year old girl cried two times in the course of twenty-one days?”

“Well of course you can make anything sound ridiculous when you put it deadpan like that,” Ford said. “The point is she wasn’t just crying, she was sobbing like she’d had her heart broken because I decided it would be okay to leave her and her brother behind while I went on a trip despite their clear and present abandonment issues. And the time before that was because I took them, formerly abused children, to my father’s house to be berated by him.”

“First off, I’m not even going to point out the contradiction in saying your father was the one to tell you that you’re a bad parent and then immediately turning around and calling him abusive.”

“You do realize that saying you’re not going to point it out, does in fact constitute pointing it out,” said Ford.

Fiddleford rolled his eyes. Yes Ford, that was the point. “I won’t expound upon it then.”

“And also, please don’t use that word in front of Stan,” Ford continued. “I’m not saying it’s an inaccurate term to describe my father, but it isn’t one Stan’s comfortable with using yet.”

Fiddleford never saw how anyone got anywhere by refusing to call a spade a spade, but then he reckoned it was Ford and Stan’s, and their other brother’s too, prerogative to decide how they wanted to define their childhood, not his. “Alright, I won’t. Now as I was saying, secondly, you didn’t know your dad was going to berate them, or you wouldn’t have taken them.”

“I should have known,” Ford insisted.

“Maybe, but you didn’t. You can’t fault yourself for not acting on information you didn’t have. And thirdly, we decided that you needed to come on this trip for work, and you and Stan decided that it would be good for the kids in the long run. Sure, they were upset when you left, and they’re probably upset right now while you’re gone, but you’ll get back home, and they’ll feel better, and their abandonment issues will be better for it as well.”

“We think it might help their abandonment issues, but we don’t know that,” Ford said. “I feel like I don’t know anything at all here. How could I possibly be a good parent when I don’t have the first clue what I’m doing?”

“None of us know what we’re doing, and if any parent tells you they do, they are lying to you through their teeth,” Fiddleford said. “Lord knows I don’t know what I’m doing more than half the time. I left my son back home with his mother so I could take a job over 500 miles away because I thought that was what was going to be best for my family in the long run, but I don’t know if that’s true or if Tate would have been better off if I had stayed in Palo Alto. We’re all just trying to figure things out as best as we can as we go. Why do you think parenting books are so popular?”

“I dislike those books,” Ford said, crinkling his nose in distaste. “They’re largely condescending and they all contradict each other. I also doubt that many of them were written by actual parents.”

Fiddleford chuckled. “But you read all of them just the same.”

“Yes, well. It would have been a waste not to after I went to all the trouble of buying them.”

“Uh-huh. I’m sure there were a few good tidbits at least,” Fiddleford said. Ford gave an off-handed shrug that said, “yes, very much so, but I’m not going to admit it.” Classic Ford. “Now, if you’d like some advice from someone you know for a fact is a parent, the way I see it the most important thing you can do as a parent is to listen, really listen to your kids. Then when they tell you what they need, you do your best to give it to them.”

“So I should have listened to Mabel when she begged me to stay home and not come on this trip,” Ford concluded glumly.

“Don’t be confusing want and need. You can’t always give your kids everything they want, and it probably wouldn’t be good for them if you could. She wanted you to stay right then, but what she was telling you she needed when she broke down crying like that was a little love and comfort, and to not be abandoned by her dad the way Steph abandoned her. Seems to me that’s what you gave her, and what you’re going to be giving her when you get back home tomorrow.”

“So it isn’t enough to just listen, I have to somehow intuit what they’re feeling.” Ford was staring down at the hands in his lap, clenching them together in useless frustration.

“Girl was crying her eyes out; not much to intuit.” Fiddleford sighed and placed a light hand on Ford’s forearm, getting him to relax his fists. “Look, I know it’s not always easy. But it’s not like dealing with adults either. Adults can hide what we’re feeling and what we need out of pride or shame or what have you, but kids don’t do that so much, and when they do they’re not all that good at it. Sure they aren’t always going to say it straight out for you, but a kid will always tell you what they need as long as you’re paying attention. And whatever this crisis of confidence is, you can’t deny you pay real close attention to those kids of yours.”

“I _want_ to be a good parent for them.” Ford said with so much feeling it could make a heart break. “And even when I fuck it all up, I’m still trying my best to be that.”

“That’s all a body can ask of you,” Fiddleford said. “For what it’s worth, your best seems pretty great to me.”

“I appreciate you saying that. Though I’d prefer you be honest with me, rather than saying things to make me feel better,” Ford said.

“Stanford Pines. Have I ever once hesitated to tell you when you were being a right idiot?”

“Not that I’m aware of?” Ford answered.

“Good. Then you’ll listen to me when I tell you you’re being an idiot right now for thinking I’d sugar-coat that for you. If you were a terrible parent neither Stan nor I would stand back and say nothing while you hurt those sweet little kids of yours. You are a good dad, and that’s all there is to it. Course, I don’t see why my opinion or your dad’s opinion, or the opinion of whoever all has been saying whatever all to you should matter anyhow. When it comes to whether or not you’re a good parent, there’s only one opinion that should matter, or in your case two. And they seem to think you’re doing a bang-up job of it.”

That finally got Ford to crack a smile. “They do at that. Thanks.” He shook himself, then his smile took on a more apologetic cast. “But here I am letting you comfort me, when I’m supposed to be the one making you feel better.”

All the visions and apparitions and nightmares that had faded away unnoticed while Fiddleford had been focusing on Ford’s problem came screaming back to life all at once, leaving him frozen in utter terror. “Don’t worry about it,” he managed after a minute.  He tried to push the thoughts down, down, down, away, enough so he could at least have a normal conversation, enough so he could do more than curl up in a useless ball and weep. “Helping you get your fool head on straight was plenty distraction.”

“Happy to be of service,” Ford said wryly. “Though maybe you want to tell me a funny story or two about Tate now?”

Little Tate’s face twisted up in agony and there was nothing Fiddleford could do to save him, nothing he could do at all but watch as – no. Don’t think about it. Push it down, push it away, forget about it. “Yeah, I suppose I could tell you one or two of those,” Fiddleford said, forcing a bit of a laugh. “There was one time when Tate was three…”

Don’t think about the visions. They weren’t real. Don’t think about them; forget them. Forget all about them. Forget. Forget.

Forget.


	25. Chapter Twenty-Five

Neither Ford nor Fiddleford got any sleep that night. As the evening drew later they did make one token effort to settle down, though honestly Ford hesitated to even call it that much. They had put their campfire out and climbed into their sleeping bags, but at what must have been the instant Fiddleford had closed his eyes, he had sat bolt upright again and said he was going to stay up a little longer. Of course Ford had insisted on staying up with him – he’d been avoiding them lately, but he was no stranger to all-nighters and he felt somewhat responsible for Fiddleford’s current state, given that the incident likely could have been avoided if he hadn’t insisted on stopping to sketch the gremloblin. They spent the night talking instead, Ford doing his best to keep Fiddleford distracted, and he thought succeeding at it. At the very least he succeeded in not making the conversation about himself and his insecurities again when he was supposed to be the one helping Fiddleford, so that was something.

Finally the first glimmering of dawn began to seep its way through the trees. As soon as it was light enough for them to reliably see where they were going and not trip over any forest debris, the two of them headed out. It took them roughly forty-five minutes before they hit the road, and after another half an hour of walking along that they were lucky enough to have a Good Samaritan pass by and stop to offer them a ride. Though, it was maybe not that surprising that someone might stop to lend assistance given Fiddleford’s sling and the assortment of bandages they were both sporting. In any case, the end result was they arrived at the hospital shortly before 9am on Saturday morning, putting them well ahead of schedule even with the unplanned trip to the emergency room.

Honestly, Ford’s natural inclination would have been to skip the emergency room trip altogether and just tend to Fiddleford at home. Sure, none of his degrees technically made Ford that kind of doctor, but it was a broken bone, not a wasting illness or acute heart failure or anything of that nature; he was sure he could figure it out. The problem was if he did that, then the children would see him bringing Fiddleford home with a broken arm and tending to it. He had already had enough difficulty with getting them to the doctor for their required immunizations before they started kindergarten – Ford had no medical records for Dipper and Mabel beyond their birth certificates and therefore no clue what shots Steph had already seen to it that they had received, but none of them felt like a reasonable guess. Ford didn’t want to set the precedent that they could count on him to be their medical doctor. No, much better to let them see Fiddleford being taken to the doctor to get his injuries tended to. In fact, Ford probably ought to let the doctors look him over as well. He liked that idea as much as he liked having to shower every day, but he managed to do the one to set a good example, so he could do the other as well.

Luckily, the emergency room wasn’t too busy that morning. Fiddleford and Ford were both called back in fairly short order, and Ford was taken care of equally as quickly. The doctor cleaned up and bandaged all his scrapes, but ultimately confirmed Ford’s assessment that the worst damage done to him was the possibly irreparable tear in his coat. Even on that front Ford had been lucky, as in deference to the cold he had been wearing a thicker down jacket and not his favorite long brown coat.

Fiddleford wasn’t in the waiting room when Ford returned, but that was to be expected. Fiddleford had been hurt much worse that Ford had, so it naturally would take longer to treat him. The end result of that, however, was that for the first time since their conversation last night Ford was left alone with his thoughts.

Fiddleford thought he was a good dad. More than that, Fiddleford had even used the word great to describe his assessment of Ford’s parenting abilities. That was so far beyond anything Ford had ever thought of himself it was dizzying. He didn’t always think of himself as a terrible parent, even if he had been doing it more so after his back-to-back failures lately, but the best he could think to describe himself as at his most optimistic was acceptable, decent, okay. His kids deserved better than that, as far as Ford was concerned Dipper and Mabel deserved the greatest parent ever, but even if Ford could find it in himself to give them away for their own good, there was no way he could guarantee that whoever they ended up with would be better than Ford was. So as long as Ford could manage acceptable, then that would be… acceptable.

But Fiddleford thought he was great at it. Ford couldn’t fathom how that was possible. He didn’t know how to be a parent, and his attempts at research on the subject had been less than illuminating. How could someone do a good job at anything if they didn’t know how to do it? He would allow that a person might manage a passable performance despite a lack of knowledge with a combination of luck and natural talent – the latter of which Stanford was certain he was woefully lacking in – but to be good or even great? It didn’t seem possible.

That was what had made it so easy to brush off the comments by other people calling him a good dad. What they were suggesting wasn’t possible, so clearly there was some flaw in their reasoning. It was easy to see how it might happen – the people of Gravity Falls were good people, the kind that would want to believe in happy families and happily ever afters. They were also a bit dim and gullible. The combination of those two things, as well as the fact that the evidence they gathered as casual friends and acquaintances or as total strangers, was inherently limited, made it unsurprising that they might draw the conclusion that Ford was a good father merely because that was the conclusion they wanted to draw. It wasn’t that Ford didn’t appreciate the sentiment, he just couldn’t lend much credence to it.

Fiddleford was another matter altogether. For one thing, Ford knew that Fiddleford actually had the experience necessary to make him qualified to judge in this matter. Fiddleford’s childhood had been a happy and loving one from what he’d told Ford – growing up on a hog farm notwithstanding, which Fiddleford insisted had been perfectly enjoyable, but Ford remained dubious. Fiddleford was also a parent himself, had been for over four years now, and Ford had faith in _Fiddleford’s_ ability to be a good parent at least. Finally Fiddleford had been half living with Ford and his family for the past three months, which gave him plenty opportunity to get an accurate picture of Ford’s parenting abilities. And with all that, Fiddleford had come to the conclusion that Ford was doing a great job. And maybe, just maybe, Ford could take his word for it, because he certainly didn’t trust his own judgement in the matter. In fact the only people whose judgement he felt he could trust were Fiddleford, maybe Stan, and…

Ford began picking at the bandage wrapped around his arm. Not trying to pull it off, just picking at it. The only other person’s judgement who Ford felt he could trust, whose judgement he had been trusting was Bill. But Bill’s opinion was the exact opposite, everything he had said serving to reinforce Stanford’s conviction that he wasn’t a good parent. If what Bill and Fiddleford were saying were in exact contradiction with each other, then one of them must be wrong. Ford had just enumerated the reasons that Fiddleford couldn’t be wrong, but it didn’t make sense for Bill to be wrong either. He was an otherworldly creature with an all-seeing eye who regularly spent time literally inside of Ford’s head; he had to know what he was talking about.

All the thoughts buzzing around in his brain were becoming too much to take, and Ford found himself getting out of his chair and pacing about the waiting room, still picking at his wrist. There was another possibility. Neither of them would have to be mistaken if one of them was lying to him. Ford had initially assumed that was the case, that Fiddleford was lying to him to help make him feel better. Except Fiddleford had made a good point, a couple of them in fact. Fiddleford was certainly a kind person, but he rarely if ever stood idly by when he thought Ford was making bad decisions. Even if he were willing to do that in a normal situation, he certainly wouldn’t if it meant Dipper and Mabel were suffering for it. He might not love the children as much as Ford did, but he still cared about their well-being.

So if neither Bill nor Fiddleford could have possibly gotten it wrong, and Fiddleford wasn’t lying, what did that leave? Bill couldn’t be lying to Ford, he couldn’t. Bill was Ford’s muse, his friend, and while he wasn’t Ford’s only friend in Gravity Falls anymore, he had still been his first friend, and Ford treasured that connection. Stanford trusted Bill; Bill couldn’t be lying to him. It had to be a misunderstanding or a miscommunication or…

Ford forced himself to stop and smooth his wrist bandages flat. If he kept picking at them like this, they really would come off.

Miscommunication, that was it. It was all a miscommunication where all three of them were a little bit wrong. After all, neither Fiddleford nor Bill had explicitly described Ford as being a great or terrible parent. Fiddleford had used the word great, but ultimately come down on the descriptor “good,” and Bill hadn’t said anything specific at all, just said that comparatively Stanford was a better scientist than parent and Stan was better at caring for children than Stanford was. Perhaps in his desire to see the best in his friend, Fiddleford had come away with a slightly rose-colored view of the situation, while Bill’s comparative analysis had resulted in a slightly over-critical assessment. Then Ford had compounded the issue by unintentionally exaggerating both opinions in his interpretation, resulting in him creating two opposing viewpoints where none such existed. Yes, that was a reasonable explanation.

Besides, Ford thought as his feet began moving again, why would Bill lie to him about that? He could see why Fiddleford might hypothetically have lied to him, but what reasons would Bill have to do so? What could Bill possibly have to gain by making Stanford think he was a terrible parent? Logically, if-

“Okay you two gremlins, there’s your surprise right over there.”

“Daddy!” screamed two voices in concert, Mabel’s shout in particular reaching registers that Ford was fairly certain only dogs could hear. Ford turned and crouched down to catch Dipper and Mabel, but he significantly underestimated the rate at which they were hurtling toward him and ended up falling backwards when they hit him with the force of a pair of cannonballs.

“Oof,” Ford said as his butt hit the tile floor. Despite feeling a little like he’d just had the wind knocked out of him, he wrapped his arms around his kids and hugged them as tight as he could. How was it possible to miss anyone this much when he’d seen them barely seventy-two hours ago? He couldn’t comprehend it, he only knew it was true and knew that he had been right before – there was no way he could ever give these two up, even for their own good. And you know, maybe he didn’t have to.

“Daddy, you’re back,” Mabel said, her arms wrapped tight around his neck.

“I told you I would be,” Ford replied.

“Yeah, but now you _are_.” Well, he could hardly argue with that logic.

“Daddy, I missed you,” Dipper added.

“I missed you too. Both of you, so much.” He squeezed them both again. “But maybe we could continue this in one of the chairs – I’m not certain the floor here is entirely sanitary.”

He managed to get himself settled in a chair with the pair of them on his lap – a more difficult feat than it usually might have been given neither of them were willing to lose contact with him for as much as a second. Once they were seated, Stan came and took the chair next to them, placing the bag he was carrying in the chair next to that. “I believe someone owes me a ka-zillion dollars,” Stan said, holding his hand out.

“What?” Ford asked.

“Dipper and Mabel here didn’t want to come to the hospital for their surprise because they were worried you might come home while we were gone. So I bet them a ka-zillion dollars you wouldn’t get back to the house before we did. Since you’re going to be coming back with us that means I win the bet, and these two gotta pay up,” Stan explained.

“That hardly seems fair. You knew for a fact that I was here and wasn’t going to beat you back, because I called you and asked you to pick Fiddleford and me up,” Ford objected, though he was really more amused than anything. Stan never seemed to promise the kids anything, instead making guarantees by betting them ridiculous and usually imaginary sums of money that what he was saying was true. It was such a Stan thing to do.

“Hey, way I see it these two should know better than to bet against their Uncle Stan by now. Besides, I only bet a million dollars, Mabel’s the one who raised the stakes to a ka-zillion.”

“That still sounds like cheating to me, but I suppose you two best pay him; Stan will be insufferable otherwise,” Ford told the kids

“Oi,” Stan objected. Even as he did, Dipper and Mabel took turns slapping on Stan’s open palm.

“It’s imaginary money,” Dipper explained helpfully.

“Imaginary money? What, I don’t even rate Monopoly money?” Stan said. “No respect from any of ya, I’m telling ya.”

“I can make you some Mabel money when we go home. It’s worth ‘zactly a ka-zillion dollars,” Mabel said.

“Exactly that much huh? That’s convenient. How much is a Dipper dollar worth?” Stan asked.

“Infinity dollars,” Dipper answered.

“Then a Mabel money is worth infinity plus one dollars.”

“Infinity plus two.”

“Infinity plus infinity.”

“Infinity _times_ infinity infinity times.”

“Alright, alright,” Ford said, interjecting before things could get too out of hand. “How about we agree that Mabel money and Dipper dollars are worth equally large infinities?”

“Either way, they’re both worth way more than a Stan buck. I’m not going to be able to make change for an infinity dollar,” Stan said.

“Keep the change!” Mabel replied.

“Now that that’s settled, why you two tell me about what I missed while I was gone,” Ford suggested.

“Hold up before you do that,” Stan said. He reached into his bag and pulled out Dipper’s journal and handed to him. Presumably Dipper had been taking notes in it like he said he would, and Stan had brought it with them so Dipper could share them right away; that was thoughtful of Stan. Somewhat less explicable was the shoe box with the rubber band around it Stan got out of the bag next. He pulled off the rubber band and handed the box to Mabel, the lid almost bursting off when he did so. Mabel wasted no time in finishing the job, then tossed the lid back at Stan so she could began sorting through the all the pictures held within.

“You certainly took a lot of photos,” Ford observed.

“Uh-huh. My new camera is the best present ever, thank you Daddy.”

Oh. “You’re welcome.” Ford had thought he had misstepped somehow with the camera, as Mabel hadn’t even been interested in looking at it when he left. Apparently not, given how much use she’d gotten out of it in the time he’d been gone. Although… “I don’t remember leaving you that much film for it.”

“Yeah, we had to go to the store twice to get more,” Stan said. “It was the only thing these two were willing to leave the house for while you were gone.” That raised a very pertinent question, but not an especially urgent one. Certainly not more urgent than Dipper trying to get Ford’s attention to show him an entry in his journal. Ford could ask it later.

The four of them sat in the hospital waiting room talking for a long time. Longer than Ford realized at first, too caught up in Dipper and Mabel’s stories, and in telling them all his own stories about what he and Fiddleford had done and seen in the past few days. He only caught on to how much time had passed when Fiddleford finally returned.

“Gang’s all here, huh? Good, I just got a little more paperwork they’re pulling together for me afore we can head out,” Fiddleford said.

“They’re all done with you?” Ford asked, then frowned when he saw the splint Fiddleford was wearing. “No cast?” Not that Ford especially wanted him to be wearing a cast; the things were cumbersome and unwieldy, and if Ford had given into his inclination to treat Fiddleford at home they likely would have found a way to do without. But he was surprised that the hospital hadn’t insisted on one.

“As it turns out my arm isn’t broken, _Dr_. Pines,” Fiddleford said with the faintest edge of sarcasm, but it wasn’t as though Ford had ever claimed to be a medical doctor. “They think it’s a hairline fracture. It ought to heal on its own, but they gave me this splint to wear to remind me to take it easy for the next month or so.”

“That’s good. That it isn’t anything more serious, I mean. And how are you doing otherwise?” Ford asked with a significant look to make it clear he wasn’t talking about Fiddleford’s assorted bruises. He had underplayed the impact the visions had had on Fiddleford when he had related the story to the kids to avoid scaring them, so he didn’t want to ask about it explicitly now. Ford was still worried about it though; Fiddleford seemed much better than yesterday, but at various points yesterday Fiddleford had been babbling in terror and in a near catatonic fugue state, so better than that didn’t mean much.

“I’m doing fine,” Fiddleford said. Ford glanced over at Stan to see if that had sounded as unconvincing to him as it had to Ford and caught Stan glancing back. Fiddleford glared at the pair of them. “I’m _fine_. I don’t need you both mother-henning me.”

Stan snorted in disbelief. Dipper and Mabel had bought into Ford’s minimized version of Fiddleford’s trauma, but Stan had obviously been able to read between the lines. “Oh yeah, I’m sure you’ll just think your way to being better. Because that always works.” This time the sarcasm laid thick and heavy over the words, but honestly Ford thought Stan had a genuine point.

“We’re scientists; we use our creativity to solve any problem that comes our way,” Ford said. “And until then, Stan and I will be here to mother-hen you.”

Fiddleford made an annoyed sound, but seemed disinclined to argue further. Luckily just then Mabel interrupted with, “Mr. Fiddleford I wanna sign your cast.”

“Me too,” Dipper said.

“This isn’t really the kind of cast you can sign,” Fiddleford said. “Suppose when I fill out that paperwork we could ask the woman at the desk for some scratch paper you can sign and we can tape it on here.”

“’Kay!” Mabel said. The two of them slid off of Ford’s lap and grabbed ahold of Fiddleford on their way past to the desk.

Ford felt proud, relieved, and a little disappointed. Dipper and Mabel were such resilient children. It hadn’t been too much earlier that they hadn’t been willing to be separated more than an inch from him, but now they were perfectly comfortable running off with Fiddleford. Granted, they weren’t going that far, still well within earshot and eyeshot, but it was an accomplishment regardless. He was glad for them, glad that they felt so secure and that he now had some solid evidence his trip might really have been good for their abandonment issues. He just hadn’t been entirely done cuddling with them yet.

It did mean he had a good opportunity to ask Stan the question that had occurred to him earlier at least. “Did the kids not go to school while I was gone?”

“Yeah, about that,” Stan said, rubbing the back of his neck. “On Wednesday when came time to take them they got really upset, said they didn’t want to leave in case you came back while they were gone. I tried reminding them you’d only just left and weren’t supposed to be back until Saturday, but they weren’t having it. Actually, I kinda got the impression they weren’t too crazy about the idea of me leaving them somewhere without me right after you just left, ya know?”

“Ah,” Ford said.

“I thought about making ‘em go anyway, but I know you’re not too big on forcing them into too much too fast, so I figured I’d call ‘em in sick and let them play hooky. Just this once,” Stan assured him.

“No, that makes sense. I’m sure they can afford to miss just a few days of school.”

“Chalk that one up under ‘things I never thought I’d hear Ford say,’” Stan said with a little laugh. Ford flashed him a grin at the good-natured teasing. “Okay, now I got a question I wanna ask you. You said when you knocked out that gremgoblin-“

“Gremloblin,” Ford corrected.

“Whatever,” Stan said. “When you knocked him out, you fell into a hayloft in a barn, right?”

“Right.”

“So why didn’t you just go to the farm house and ask to borrow their phone? We could have picked you up and taken you to the hospital from there.”

“That…” Ford trailed off. “Huh.”

“Never even occurred to you did it?” Stan asked.

“No, it did not,” Ford admitted.

“Thought so. For such a genius, you sure are an idiot.” Stan gave him a playful punch to the arm.

“Yeah, well you… I missed you while I was gone.”

Stan gaped at him like a fish for a few seconds. “I… That’s not a very good comeback.”

“Maybe,” Ford allowed, though with how off-kilter it had thrown Stan one could argue it was a very good comeback. “It’s true regardless.”

“I… you…” Stan suddenly shifted in his chair, and Ford expected to receive another friendly punch or a headlock or something of that sort. Instead, Stan caught him in an embrace. “You really are going to turn into a tree one of these days, you sap.”

“Look who’s talking,” Ford said, giving Stan a hug back.

“Hey, I’m entitled. You called me up to say you were in the hospital, scared the crap-ckers, you scared the crackers out of me,” Stan said.

“Nice save,” Ford remarked dryly. Stan had mostly managed to excise casual swearing from his vocabulary, but not entirely.

“I’m being serious here, Sixer,” Stan said. “No pulling any stunts like this again, got it?”

“I’ll try my best,” Ford promised.

“Good. I’m glad you and Fidds are alright.” Stan looked over at Fiddleford, who still had a certain tenseness in the line of his shoulders even as he chatted amicably with the kids and the woman at the desk. “More or less.”

“More or less,” Ford agreed. Physically he was sure they would both be fine. Psychologically… only time would tell.


	26. Chapter Twenty-Six

As soon as they got back from the hospital, Fiddleford insisted on heading home to his own apartment. He didn’t come by at all on Sunday, so they didn’t see him again until he came in for work Monday, during which time he seemed as focused as he normally was on their work on the portal, but he was also noticeably tired and left as soon as work was done for the day, rather than staying for dinner and to socialize for a while. Ford was concerned by this behavior, and Stan clearly was too, but neither of them did more than ask a few gently probing questions for the moment. Despite Ford’s comment at the hospital neither of them wanted to take things to the point of actually mother-henning Fiddleford, and honestly the behavior was only concerning because they had already been concerned. All of his actions fell within the bounds of normal for him, so for the time being if Fiddleford wanted to sort through his issues alone, they would let him.

Then he was late for work on Tuesday morning, and Ford started worrying in earnest. While the time when Ford actually started working could vary somewhat on any given day, nominally he started at 9 in the morning. As such, Fiddleford always arrived by 8:55 at the very latest, and usually he was over before that. Now that his behavior had slid from atypical but normal to unprecedented, it was time to go find him and sit him down for a serious talk about what he’d experienced and how to deal with it.

Or so Ford thought, but Stan rolled his eyes and said that a five-minute delay was hardly cause for sending out the search parties and staging an intervention. He practically shoved Ford at the basement door, saying there was probably a reasonable explanation for Fiddleford’s lateness, and they would go looking for him if he still hadn’t arrived after a half hour had passed. In the meanwhile Ford was instructed to go get some work done so he wouldn’t spend the next twenty-five minutes fretting. Ford conceded, though privately resolved to try calling Fiddleford if he still wasn’t here in ten minutes.

Fortunately, not more than five minutes had gone by before the elevator doors swished open heralding Fiddleford’s arrival. Less fortunately, Fiddleford obviously still hadn’t been sleeping, and was in that jittery stage of sleep-deprivation, though he had not yet reached full on mania. An intervention might still be in order.

“Good morning, Fiddleford. How are you doing today?” The question, which normally would be nothing more than a causal pleasantry, was asked with genuine concern.

“I’m doing great, in fact,” Fiddleford answered in a volume that would be better suited to a conversation taking place from opposite sides of the cavernous space of the main lab, not here in the small control room. “Sorry for being late, I got caught up in a personal project last night and next thing I knew it was morning, and I was already five minutes late for leaving to get here.”

Ford sat up a bit straighter. “You had a breakthrough on your portable computer project?”

In all honesty, Ford didn’t have any interest in Fiddleford’s project. Ford preferred pen and paper and the power of his own mind to tackle any intellectual problem, but after a number of enthusiastic speeches on the subject from Fiddleford, he was willing to concede that some people, such as men of science like themselves, could find a computer to be a useful tool in their work.   What he failed to see was why anyone would need a portable computer, as any notes needed on the go could be taken just as easily in a journal without having to cart a heavy piece of equipment around. That wasn’t even touching upon Fiddleford’s ludicrous belief that in the future everyone would have their own personal computer not just for at work, but for in the home as well. Ford couldn’t even begin to fathom what lay person would do with a computer.

So no, Ford wasn’t at all interested in the project itself. However, Fiddleford was very deeply invested in getting this pet project of his perfected.  Consequently, Ford was always happy to hear about any major steps forward Fiddleford had made in it.

“No, this is a different project altogether, a new one,” Fiddleford said.

“Really? What is it, another doomsday device?” Ford asked, his tone lightly teasing.

Fiddleford gave an annoyed huff. “No it’s not a doomsday device. You get caught with the blueprints for one death ray… it’s not like I was actually going to build the thing; it was a purely mental exercise.”

“And all the giant robot plans?”

“You’re one to talk, Mr. ‘I made a mind-control tie for a school assignment’,” Fiddleford said.

“It wasn’t a mind-control tie; it was a tie of possession. The two are fundamentally completely different,” Ford objected. Then after a moment he added, “Though I suppose I see your point regardless. Alright, so what is this new not-a-doomsday-device project of yours then?”

Fiddleford beamed at him. “It’s a little something I whipped up to help me deal with my anxiety. Viola,” he said, pulling the object out of his coat with a flourish.

It was shaped like a hand gun, but instead of a barrel there was an elongated bulb. Between the bulb and the main body of the gun there was what appeared to be a tall narrow sheet of plastic, presumably a shield of some kind for the canister sticking out of the body of the gun directly behind it. In addition to the standard trigger mechanism normally seen on a gun, this object also had a large dial on the side to serve as an input source for the screen on the back. Ford took the gun from Fiddleford and looked it over for a few seconds before asking, “Are you sure this isn’t a doomsday device?”

Fiddleford laughed, and Ford smiled back at him. He had mostly been a joking, though a gun struck him as an ominous design choice for an anxiety aid. “I promise it isn’t,” Fiddleford said, taking it back. “This here’s a memory gun; it targets bad memories and erases them. You use the specifier dial here to enter in what bad memory you want erased, then when you pull the trigger the bulb emits a wave of radiation that disassembles the relevant neural pathways, thus erasing the memory.”

He continued to cheerily explain how the gun worked and the functions of the different parts, completely oblivious to Ford’s mounting horror. He didn’t even know where to begin to object. Where could he begin when the fact that Fiddleford was deliberately destroying parts of his own brain was the least of it? The method of selecting the memory for deletion was frighteningly imprecise, leaving it impossibly easy to erase additional memories or the wrong memory altogether even if the user didn’t make a typo. There was a memory canister that was supposed to record a copy of the memory being erased, the only concession towards prudence, but it seemed clear from Fiddleford’s description of how the canister worked that it wasn’t the memory being recorded, but rather the minutes before the memory erasure. Perhaps the most horrifying thing though was that the blast shield wasn’t intended to protect the canister from potential radiation blowback, but the user – a job it was far too small to adequately perform – meaning the gun was explicitly designed to be used not on oneself, but on other people. A frightening implication only compounded by the output jack which would allow the gun to be attached to a transmitter and wipe memories _en masse_.

There was just so much to object to that words failed Ford utterly as he listened to Fiddleford excitedly ramble on about his invention. Then Fiddleford said this: “If you’re careful about the wording, then you could use the gun to wipe out a whole network of memories in one go. That means it can be used not just for acute traumatic incidences, but chronic ones as well. Take Dipper and Mabel-“

“Don’t you ever use that _thing_ on my children,” Ford snapped.

Fiddleford shrank back instinctively. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”

The sight of his friend cringing away from him shook Ford free of his anger, a least a little bit. He closed his eyes for a moment and took a few deep breaths. “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that; I know you meant well. But you’re talking about an untested device that shoots radiation in order to create lesions in someone’s brain. You can see why I’d be upset.”

“I, uh… yeah. Suppose I can. Don’t worry, I wouldn’t use this on your kids without your permission. I wouldn’t use it one anyone without consent,” Fiddleford said.

“That’s good, but you’ve missed the point somewhat. You shouldn’t be using this thing on anyone at all; it’s far too dangerous. Even if we completely set aside the potential for misuse – maybe you won’t use the gun unethically, but what if it falls into the wrong hands? Still, even setting that aside, this technology is far too dangerous to use,” said Ford. 

“Too dangerous? Don’t you think you’re taking that a mite too far? I’ll admit that maybe using the memory gun could lead to side effects I haven’t considered, but there’s the potential for side-effects with any medical procedure. You can’t let the risks stop you from moving forward.”

“I think the fact that you haven’t even considered the potential side-effects of _destroying portions of your brain_ proves that you haven’t taken this nearly far enough,” Ford said, completely aghast. No matter how excited Fiddleford might get with his purely mental exercises, whenever it came time to move from the theoretical stage to practical, he was always the one of the two of them to want to stop and think things through when Ford was inclined to throw caution to the wind. So how in the world was it that Ford was the only one here that could see the myriad of real and present dangers?

He forced himself to calm down. Fiddleford was already on edge with sleep-deprivation; Ford yelling at him about how stupid he was being would only make things worse. “Think about it – you just mentioned yourself the possibility of wiping out a whole network of memories. It’s one thing if you decide to do that deliberately, but what if it happens accidentally as a consequence of an attempt to wipe out a specific memory? There could be an accident in the lab and an attempt to erase the memory afterwards might erase the entirety of our project from your mind. Or maybe erasing an encounter with Steve the tree-giant will make you forget what trees are. Or maybe something will happen that make you worry about your family’s safety and then when you erase the incident later you erase your wife and son from your mind too. This invention can’t be worth that.”

“Of course it isn’t! But that won’t happen. So long as I’m careful about what I put in with the specifier, it won’t happen,” Fiddleford insisted.

“Okay maybe it won’t.” Though personally Ford doubted that very much. “We’re still talking about shooting radiation at your brain. Doing that repeatedly is at the very least bound to damage your hippocampi, which could leave you unable to recall even the memories you haven’t erased, or could give you a serious case of anterograde amnesia and prevent you from forming new memories. That’s not even looking at the possibility that the radiation might unintentionally destroy other parts of your brain. This is the single most important organ in your body; the one that makes you who you are. Start destroying neural pathways and you could compromise your ability to use logic, reason, empathy, to plan ahead and understand consequences. You could lose motor skills, make yourself blind, deaf, give yourself aphasia, just to name a few things. Or maybe the radiation will cut straight through to the medulla oblongata and make your _heart stop beating_!” So much for calm.

“You’re blowing things out of proportion,” Fiddleford said.

“No, I’m not. You can’t go mucking about in your brain and assume it’ll just work out okay.”

“You made a _mind-controlling_ tie.”

“I made a tie of possession,” Ford corrected for the second time this conversation.

Fiddleford looked decidedly unimpressed. “Y’know I’m not really in the mood to squabble about semantics at the moment.”

“That’s not a minor quibble, those two things aren’t the same, in a way that’s highly relevant to this conversation.”

“Enlighten me then. What’s the difference?”

“The difference is the tie of possession causes the signals in the motor cortex of the person wearing the possessed tie to be temporarily overridden to mirror the signals in the motor cortex of the person wearing the possessor tie. It’s not permanent, and more importantly it does not make any changes whatsoever to the physical structures in either person’s brain. A deliberate choice on my part after extensive neurology research for the project because messing around with the structure of someone’s brain – for example, by using radiation to destroy neural pathways – is far too dangerous to be done by anyone but an expert,” Ford said. What he did not say was the difference was that he had had some idea of what the hell he had been doing, but it was a near thing.

“You’re not any sort of neuroscientist either Ford, and you’re certainly not an expert on the memory gun. I’m the one who built the thing; you haven’t even seen the schematics. You can talk about possible side-effects based on top level theory all you want, that doesn’t mean you have an understanding of the actual degree of risk. And if you did know the exact chance of anything going wrong, you still wouldn’t have the right to decide for me how much risk I’m willing to take for the benefits this treatment offers.”

There was no way for Ford to argue with any of that, because it was all technically true. The problem was it was the kind of truth that betrayed a deep misunderstanding of the underlying issues. Everything Fiddleford had said was correct, but that didn’t mean he was right.

“Fine, we’ll set aside any consideration of the potential risks and side-effects too,” Ford said. “Let’s assume the gun works exactly as intended; you’re still erasing your own memories. What are we human beings if not the sum of our experiences, preserved within our memories? If you erase that memory, it’s like you’re erasing that experience from ever having happened to you. You erase that memory, and you’re killing a part of yourself.”

“Maybe it’s a part of myself that deserved to die.”

Those words coupled with the dark, yet matter-of-fact way he said them cut straight through all of Ford’s anger and frustration. “Fiddleford… I know that we all have things we feel like we’d rather forget, but-”

“Maybe you know that, but I don’t think you understand it,” Fiddleford snapped. “You don’t understand what I was going through.”

“How could I when you refused to talk about it?” Ford shot back. “You kept saying you were fine and holing yourself up in your apartment. I tried to help, but you turned me down and told me not to mother hen you.”

“You did help. You reminded me that scientists use their creativity to solve their problems, but now that I’ve done that suddenly you don’t like the answer.” Because Fiddleford’s answer was wrong. Just because a solution was creative, that didn’t mean it was a good one.

“Alright, then let me help you again. We can find a different way of dealing with this, one that’s less dangerous,’ Ford coaxed.

“I don’t need a different way of dealing with it; it’s been dealt with.”’

“Fiddleford.” Ford took in a steadying breath and sent up a silent prayer on the off chance that there might be some higher power listening. “Please tell me you haven’t already used this on yourself.” Please tell him that Fiddleford hadn’t used an untested piece of equipment to shoot himself with radiation to destroy a part of his brain without telling anyone what he was doing or having any supervision in case the process went horribly wrong.

“I did. That’s why I know all your worries about side-effects are completely unfounded. I used the gun on myself right before I came over here this morning, and for the first time since we… well, since whatever that trouble we ran into was, I’m feeling _fine_ ,” Fiddleford said, his voice creeping up a few decibels higher than his already too loud volume.

“Oh yes, because you certainly sound like you’re doing fine,” Ford said. “Though I think it’s the disheveled look and the bags under your eyes that really sell how _fine_ you are.”

“If I’m sleep-deprived, then it’s not because of the memory gun. I’m sleep-deprived because for the past four days I haven’t been able to close my eyes without seeing horrible things, but now finally I have some relief. You know I was thinking I might have to quit the project altogether, that I just wasn’t cut out for all this supernatural stuff. But I’m okay now, and I know if something like this happens again I’ve got what I need to handle it, so I don’t have to go.”

“Maybe you should.”

“What?” Fiddleford said, clearly taken aback.

“Look, obviously I don’t want you to leave. Aside from the fact that I have no idea how I’d finish the portal without your help, it’s been great having you around and getting to see you more often. I’d be happy if you decided to bring your whole family and move up here permanently.” In fact, that was an outcome that Ford was actively hoping for; he just hadn’t gotten around to making Fiddleford the job offer to stay on as his assistant even after the portal was complete. “But if you’re telling me that the only way you can stay here and be comfortable is by using that memory gun on yourself, then for your own good, you need to leave. And either way, we need to destroy the gun.”

“You can’t destroy it!” Fiddleford exclaimed, protectively pulling the gun closer toward himself. Even while standing his leg was going at a higher kbps than Ford had ever seen before, and his hands were twitching restlessly, one of them rapidly spinning the dial on the specifier back and forth. “I need it!”

“You need that thing like you need a hole in the head. And in this case I mean that very literally. Now give it here,” Ford said, reaching out to take the gun.

Fiddleford took a few hasty steps back. “You don’t understand. I can’t risk ending up terrified like that again, I can’t. I need the memory gun. I can’t let you destroy it,” Fiddleford said. Then with shaking hands he pointed the gun at Ford.

“What are you doing?” Ford demanded, too shocked to even process what was happening.

“I’m sorry,” Fiddleford said. He pulled the trigger.

Ford blinked, feeling strangely disoriented. “What was I saying?”

“We were just destroying the memory gun. I think it must’ve hit you with some kind of shockwave when I broke it because you looked a little out of it for a minute there,” Fiddleford said.

“Oh, right.” That made sense. Ford could recall saying something about needing to destroy the gun, and he could see the slight bulge in Fiddleford’s coat pocket where he must have stuck the pieces. Ford didn’t begrudge him keeping those – it was a horrifying invention, but it was still one that Fiddleford had obviously poured a lot of effort into. “I’m glad you saw sense. Now I think you should probably go home.”

“What? I know I said I was thinking about quitting, but I was going to go through with it,” Fiddleford said.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t being clear. I meant you should go home for your Christmas vacation. I know originally you weren’t going to leave until tomorrow, but I really think some quality time with your family would be the best thing for you right now. Then we can look at other ways to control and manage your anxiety when you get back on the fourth,” said Ford.  

“Oh,” Fiddleford said. “Well that’s considerate of you, but we haven’t finished installing the Temporal Displacement Hyperdrive yet. I thought you wanted to have that done before I left.”

“I did, but it’s fine,” Ford said with a shrug. “I’m sure I’ll be able to get it figured out before you get back.” Especially if he got some help from Bill.

“Stanford Pines, don’t you touch that thing when I’m not around. I don’t want you trying to do something that’s beyond you and breaking it.”

Since Ford had just been telling Fiddleford off for messing about in a field he didn’t fully understand, and Fiddleford had broken the memory gun thus conceding the point, Ford had no choice but to graciously do the same. “Okay, I promise no practical engineering while you’re gone. Just theoretical work and calculations.”

“And installing the safety rail.”

“And installing the safety rail,” Ford agreed with a good-natured eye roll. Ford was of the opinion that a line on the ground marking of the danger zone around the portal would be plenty sufficient. He, Fiddleford, and Stan would all understand what the line meant, and he was certain that if he explained to the kids the importance of not passing over the line they would listen. Dipper and Mabel were very well-behaved, beside which the portal was on the opposite side of a separate section of the lab from the corner for the children. However, Fiddleford was insistent that a line would not be enough to deter curious, rambunctious children, no matter how well-behaved, and so they were putting in a waist-high fence where the line would have gone as a precaution.

“Good. Because I don’t know that I saw another hyperdrive in the ship, so if you break this one we’d be out of luck.”

That had been Ford’s point, the only difference being he knew for a fact that Fiddleford didn’t have another back-up brain lying around for if he “broke” this one. He didn’t say as much, but it must have shown in his expression because Fiddleford sighed and said, “About the memory gun. I know we got into it there, but I also know the only reason you were getting so worked up is you were worried. I do appreciate that.”

“I’m glad. And I appreciate you listening to my concerns and destroying it.” At least, he assumed that was why Fiddleford had destroyed the gun. He couldn’t seem to remember exactly what Fiddleford had said his reasoning was.

“Of course. I destroyed it because it was too dangerous,” Fiddleford said, his hand absently patting at the lump in his coat. “You were right, it wasn’t worth risking forgetting my wife and son. Speaking of, I better head back to my apartment and pack for the trip. If I hurry I might make it home in time for dinner.”

“Okay, have fun on your vacation,” Ford said, giving Fiddleford a brief hug in parting. Fiddleford seemed unusually stiff during, but then he was still sleep-deprived. Ford was well-acquainted with how that could throw off your reactions. “I’ll see you in the new year.”

“See you next year,” Fiddleford said, before boarding the elevator back up to the main house.

Ford turned back to the page of calculations he had been working on before Fiddleford had arrived, but after a moment pushed that aside in favor of writing a recounting of this latest incident in Journal 3. Despite the concerning nature of the subject matter, he found himself humming a little as he did so. Altogether, Ford was quite happy with the way their discussion had turned out.  


	27. Chapter Twenty-Seven

Ria rolled onto her stomach and pulled her pillow down tight over her ears, but even with that and her bedroom door closed she could still hear Mamí and Papí yelling at each other in the kitchen. Plus lying with her nose squished against the bed was uncomfortable and made it a little hard to breathe, so she rolled back over. Now the pillow was on her face. She left it there.

It was supposed to have been a joke. Miguel had been acting like he thought he was so grown-up ever since he got his driver’s license - only a few weeks ago even though he had turned sixteen months and months ago. He’d started drinking coffee all the time because he thought it made him look cool, but Miguel had an even bigger sweet tooth than Ria, bigger than Yolanda even, and he had to pour a ton of sugar in his coffee before he could drink it. Everyone had gone to bed early last night – Mamí had even made Papí go to bed – so it had been really easy for Ria to sneak downstairs in the middle of the night and pour all the sugar in the sugar bowl back in the bag and replace it with salt. She had been sure it was going to get Miguel, not anyone else, because Yolanda didn’t drink coffee, and Mamí had her coffee with milk and cinnamon, and Papí always woke up late and only ever drank beer anyway. Except Mamí had made Papí get up early too for Christmas morning, and then even though he never did that, Papí had made himself a mug of coffee.

It had only been a joke, but Papí hadn’t laughed. He hadn’t listened when Ria had tried to say she was sorry either, just screamed at her until Mamí had come in and started screaming at him. Ria had tried to slip away, but the first time she’d tried, Papí saw her and grabbed her by the arm really hard. Then Mamí slapped him, and he let go, and they started screaming at each other even louder. Ria had tried to slip away again, and that time she had managed to escape the kitchen into her room.

It wasn’t fair. Today was Christmas; they were supposed to be happy. Luisa was still in Chile, but Carlos was coming over in a little bit and he was bringing Teresa and little Selena and they were supposed to have a big happy family Christmas, but instead Mamí and Papí were screaming like they hated each other. Why couldn’t Papí have just laughed and told Ria he thought her joke was funny? Why couldn’t he have just listened when she said she was sorry and forgiven her? It was Christmas; it wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Ria pushed the pillow down against her face and screamed. Screaming was better than crying. She screamed again and again and again, but it didn’t make her feel any better. And even when she stopped screaming, Mamí and Papí were still going at it.

Finally Ria got out of bed and climbed out her window. She snuck into the garage, got her bike, and rode off. She might have started to cry, just a little bit, but that was okay. Out on her bike there was no one who could see her crying and tell her to suck it up and start acting her age, and her tears would be dry by the time she got where she was going.

It was a long bike ride out to the Pines’s house, long enough that she hadn’t actually ever ridden her bike out to it before, she’d always gotten a ride. But she knew no way anyone would give her a ride over on Christmas, not even Miguel, not even if she threatened to tell Mamí what she had seen him and his girlfriend doing the other day. So there was no other choice to ride her bike, and she did get there eventually, even if it did take forever and Ria hated being out riding her bike all by herself for that long.

When she knocked on the Pines’s front door, Uncle Stan opened it almost right away. He looked really relieved to see her, which was weird, and crouched down to put his hands on her shoulders. “Cripes kid, where have you been?”

“What do you mean?” Ria asked.

“I mean your ma called about five minutes ago asking if we’d seen you because you and your bike had up and disappeared. You scared the hel-ck out of her.” Uncle Stan didn’t say that he had been scared too, but Ria thought he had been.

“Oh, sorry. I was riding my bike over here to see you guys.” She hadn’t meant to scare anyone. She’d thought she’d be able to make it out here before Mamí checked on her and realized she’d left. “Merry Christmas, Uncle Stan,” she added, then gave him a hug hoping it would distract him.

Uncle Stan hugged her back, because Uncle Stan always hugged her back. She liked Uncle Stan’s hugs. They weren’t like Mamí’s hugs, soft and warm, or like hugs from Carlos, who was almost as big as Papí and completely wrapped Ria up, or hugs from Teresa, who always gave Ria a kiss on the forehead with her hugs, or hugs from Luisa, who liked to pick Ria up and spin her around, or Yolanda’s hugs, which always smelled like flowers, or hugs from Miguel, who a lot of times only pretend like he was going to hug her, but then instead threw her over his shoulder and carried her around while Ria acted like she was kicking and screaming, or hugs from Selena, who was too little to hug for real, but she’d wrap her tiny hands around Ria’s finger and Ria called it a baby hug. Uncle Stan’s hugs were special because they were tight. Sometimes Ria hugged him back super tight and they took turns hugging tighter and tighter until one of them had to give up because it was getting too hard to breathe. But even when they weren’t making it a game, Uncle Stan’s hugs were always tight.

“Yeah, yeah, happy December 25th to you too,” Uncle Stan said. He stood up and ruffled her hair a little. Normally Ria hated that because she wasn’t a little kid, but this time it meant Uncle Stan wasn’t upset with her anymore, so she grinned at him.

“Where are Dipper and Mabel?” Those two were kind of young to be Ria’s friends normally, but she liked hanging out with them anyway. They were pretty smart and fun for a pair of kindergarteners, plus Ria liked being the big kid who got to show them stuff instead of being the baby for a change.

“They’re downstairs with Ford. Mabel’s putting all her pictures in her new photo album and Dipper’s helping her.”

“Oh,” Ria said, looking down at her shoes.

“I didn’t tell them you went missing. We didn’t need them crying on top of you already being gone,” Uncle Stan told her. That was okay then. It wasn’t that Ria wanted Dipper and Mabel to be upset, but Ria knew she would be upset if she thought they were missing, so she didn’t like the idea of them playing around and having fun if they thought she was missing. But they hadn’t known, so of course they were happy and having fun; it was Christmas.

“I’m going to go buzz them that I’m here so I can finish teaching them about Christmas,” Ria said, running over to the wall speaker. Teaching Dipper and Mabel about stuff was her job as the big kid, but teaching them about Christmas was especially her job. Uncle Stan and Dr. Ford were Jewish, but Dipper and Mabel’s mom was Christian – they didn’t know what kind of Christian, but the three of them used to celebrate Christmas, so she had to be some kind of Christian. Except their mom had been really bad at celebrating Christmas, so Dipper and Mabel barely knew anything about it. They hadn’t even known who Rudolph was!

“Hold up there, Little Miss Ria,” Uncle Stan said, grabbing her shoulders to stop her. “You’re not going anywhere but to the phone to call your ma to tell her where you are and that I’m free to drive you home whenever.”

Ria looked back at him and pouted – fake-pouted, but she really was upset. “Why? Can’t I just stay here for a while instead?” She knew she should probably call Mamí and tell her not to worry, and Ria was okay with that part of it, but she didn’t want to leave already.

“Why? Because it’s more than my life’s worth not to make you call home,” Uncle Stan said. “Besides, don’t you guys have some big family Christmas celebration planned?”

“I guess,” Ria said. They did, and she had been excited about it yesterday, but not anymore.

“Look, I get it. I know I tried to get out of celebrating Yom Kippur at least a couple of times when I was a kid. Course, for Christmas you get presents and all I got was a day of rest ruined by all the fasting going on. Eh, either way, you’re still not getting out of calling your ma,” Uncle Stan said, pushing her toward the phone with the hands still on her shoulders.

“Can’t I at least use the phone in the kitchen?” she asked. The phone in the living room was one of the old rotary ones that were really annoying to dial; the phone in the kitchen was their new one with actual buttons. Besides the kitchen was farther away.

“Yeah, sure I guess,” Uncle Stan said. Ria started walking to the kitchen sloooowly, dragging her feet one step at a time. Uncle Stan followed her the whole way making sure she didn’t stop, but also looking like he was trying not to laugh.

She stretched it out to at least two or three minutes, plus another minute to dial the phone number, but eventually she was standing there listening while the other end rang. And rang. And rang. Finally, after probably eight rings, someone picked up. “ _Diga_.”

 “Hi Papí, it’s me, Ria,” she said. Uncle Stan had been watching her while she made her call, but now that she was actually talking to someone, he stopped. He didn’t leave the kitchen, but he stopped staring at her, instead walking around picking up and cleaning a little.

“Where the hell have you been?” Papí demanded.

“I rode my bike to the Pines’s house,” Ria said. “And you’re not supposed to say the h-word.”

“I’ll say whatever I damn well please, and no trouble-making runaway daughter is going to tell me what to do.”

“Sorry,” Ria said, even though she wasn’t a runaway and she was right and he wasn’t supposed to say the h-word or the d-word.

Papí made an annoyed sound. “Your mom is outside. Wait there,” he commanded before putting the phone down. As he was putting it down she could hear him calling in the background, “Carlos, go get your mother! María is on the phone.”

Even though Papí wasn’t the one going to get Mamí, he didn’t pick the phone back up. But if Carlos was over and Papí was telling him to go do it, then probably that meant everyone else was outside too, so Papí had to watch Selena. Probably. And Papí would only get mad at her more if he picked up again, so Ria didn’t want to talk to him anyway. Really.

She waited there quietly for a few minutes for Mamí to get back inside. After a bit Uncle Stan gave her a look, and she explained to him what was happening. He nodded, then went back to wiping off the counters. It took another few minutes after that before she heard the phone being picked up again. “Ria?”

“Hi Mamí.”

“María Isabel Ramírez!” Mamí started yelling at her in rapid-fire Spanish about how much trouble Ria was in, and Ria couldn’t say anything because she knew Mamí was right. She really wasn’t supposed to go off on her bike without telling anyone where she was going, and she knew she was supposed to stay home to celebrate Christmas with the family today. She knew that, she just hadn’t been thinking about it when she left. Except, even if she had been thinking about it, she still would have gone, although she might have left a note first.

So she couldn’t say it was unfair, and she couldn’t say she didn’t know it was wrong, and she couldn’t say she didn’t mean to do it. All she could say when Mamí finished yelling was, “I’m sorry.”

“I was so worried about you, _mi preciosa_ ,” Mamí said. Her voice hitched, and she sounded like she was crying. “My little baby girl was missing. What if something had happened to you? What if you had gotten hurt when I wasn’t there to look after you? What would I have done then?”

“I’m _sorry_ ,” Ria repeated, closing her eyes and pressing the heel of her free hand against them. She wasn’t crying, just sniffling a little. A hand ruffled through her hair, but by the time Ria had opened her eyes again Uncle Stan had already walked by and was sorting through the kitchen cabinets. Ria tried to glare at him because she didn’t want to be treated like a little kid, but she wasn’t really mad this time either.

“We can talk about it more, and your punishment, when I get there to pick you up,” Mamí said.

“Can’t I stay at the Pines’s a little longer? You know it’s my job to teach Dipper and Mabel about Christmas, and I haven’t even talked to them yet. Uncle Stan already said I could stay as long as I wanted.” Uncle Stan snorted. Okay, technically he hadn’t said that exactly, but he had said he was free to drive her over whenever, which basically meant the same thing. “So I can just stay here for a while, and Uncle Stan can bring me back before dinner.”

“You know better than to ask to stay at someone’s house when you’re in trouble. Besides, you should spend Christmas with your family. You haven’t even opened your presents yet.”

“I’ll spend Christmas dinner and evening Mass with you, and I can open my presents after that,” Ria bargained. “ _Please_ , Mamí. I don’t want to go home yet.” She hated it when Mamí and Papí fought, and hated it even more when it was all her fault. She knew they weren’t yelling at each other anymore right now, but she kept thinking that if she went back they somehow still would be anyway. She just wanted to spend Christmas where everyone was happy.

“Oh, María. I love you very much.”

“I love you too,” Ria said. “Please don’t make me go home.”

Mamí sighed. “Mr. Pines is there, yes? Let me speak to him.”

Ria held the phone up to Uncle Stan. “She wants to talk to you.”

While Uncle Stan and Mamí were talking, Ria grabbed her chair from the corner and made a space for it between Uncle Stan and Dipper’s chairs. She sat down and covered her ears so she wouldn’t hear what Uncle Stan was saying. It wasn’t good to eavesdrop, and Ria had to be on her best behavior right now.

Uncle Stan hung up the phone and sat down next to her. “You can stay for three hours, then I’m taking you home after lunch.”

“Thank you!” Ria said, lunging at Uncle Stan to hug him.

Uncle Stan caught her easily and hugged her back. “Don’t thank me, thank your ma. And probably apologize to her a few more times too.”

“I will,” Ria promised. She thought about asking if they could go get Dipper and Mabel now, but now that she knew she was going to get to stay she wasn’t in a rush. “Hey, Uncle Stan? What was the funniest prank you ever pulled?”

“Huh, tough question. Oh, I know a good one, but before I tell you, you gotta promise something,” Uncle Stan said.

“What?”

“You gotta promise you won’t copy me… without out telling me first so I can be there with a camera. Deal?”

Ria grinned. “Deal.”


	28. Chapter Twenty-Eight

“So Fidds, you seem like that trip home did you a lot of good,” Stan commented, and Ford found he had to agree. The three of them - Ford, Stan, and Fiddleford – were sitting in the kitchen having lunch together on Fiddleford’s first day back after his Christmas vacation. That Fiddleford was comfortable sitting around idly socializing and eating ham sandwiches suggested in itself that he was doing better, but beyond that he did seem much more relaxed than he had before. He was perhaps not yet one hundred percent back to his optimistic and enthusiastic self, but he wasn’t jittery and anxious anymore either.

“Sure did,” Fiddleford agreed. “It was great getting to spend some good quality time with Tate and Emma-May again. It’s funny because of course I miss them the whole time I’m gone, but I never seem to realize how much I’ve missed them until I see them again.”

“I’m sorry you don’t get to see them more often,” Ford said, though the words seemed hollow as it was Ford’s project keeping Fiddleford away from them. Still, he was sorry that helping him required such a sacrifice from Fiddleford; he couldn’t imagine having to be apart from Dipper and Mabel for so long.

“S’alright; it was my decision. Besides, the problem might just sort itself out pretty soon here,” Fiddleford said.

Ford regarded him with puzzlement. Yes, Fiddleford had briefly mentioned that he had been thinking about quitting the project altogether, but nothing about his tone now or his behavior today suggested that he was still considering that option. Not to mention it wouldn’t make much sense for him to drive all the way back up to Gravity Falls if he was planning on quitting. Fiddleford was still at present only signed on to work with Ford until the completion of the portal, but by Ford’s estimate that likely wouldn’t be for another six months at least, so it didn’t seem like that was what he could be referring to either. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I might be being a mite bit presumptuous here, but am I right in guessing that I would still have a job assisting you even after the portal is finished if I wanted it?” Fiddleford asked.

“Of course you do; I would love for you to stay on indefinitely. However, I fail to see how that would get you any more time in Palo Alto. Seems like it would be the exact opposite,” said Ford.

“It would be at that. But you know Emma-May grew up in a small town same as I did, and that kind of lifestyle is really more our speed; we only moved out to Palo Alto because it seemed like the place to be for my personal computer project. I still want to keep work on that on the side, but if this portal ends up being half as revolutionary as we think it’ll be, I got a real opportunity here. Emma-May's a nurse so she can work most anywhere, and with Tate starting kindergarten next year… Well, Emma-May and I talked about it when I went home and we think we might move up here permanently.”

“That’s great news,” Ford said. It was his ideal scenario really. He assumed the only reason that he hadn’t put together that was what Fiddleford was getting at sooner was because he honestly hadn’t been expecting it to be brought up so soon after Fiddleford had been thinking about quitting, even if that had only been in passing.

“Is it though?” Stan asked. “I mean, I ain’t saying I wouldn’t like you to move up here, but are you sure it’s a good idea for you? Ya know after…” He held his hand up like he was pointing a gun to his head.

“Stanley!” Ford admonished. That was grossly insensitive.

“No, I reckon it’s a fair question,” Fiddleford said. “There was that incident and I admit I didn’t take it well, and I did some things I regret. Given that there’s every possibility that something like that could happen again, Stan’s right to be concerned. But having lived through it the first time, I should be able handle it better the next time. I don’t see it being a problem.”

There was the relevant point here that though Fiddleford had had the experience, he’d erased his memory of it, which begged the question of how he was supposed to have learned from it. Ford refrained from mentioning that because it seemed rather tasteless to do so, but it was a relevant point. Though on further contemplation he realized that merely knowing that the experience had occurred and that there was a potential problem to be prepared for would likely lead to Fiddleford being better equipped to handle it. In that vein Fiddleford had already agreed to let Ford work with him on some meditation techniques later – Ford had a perhaps slightly unorthodox idea he wanted to try wherein Fiddleford attempted to reach a meditative state by using the Cubic’s Cube he was so fond of.

“Huh,” Stan said thoughtfully, sounding not entirely convinced. The he shrugged and said, “Well as long as you thought about it and you’re sure it’ll be okay, then sure, great news,” Stan said.

“Thanks,” Fiddleford said dryly. “Mind you, it’s not been settled for sure yet. It’s just something we’ve been talking about. We’ll have to discuss it some more, and Emma-May will want to come see the town herself before anything’s decided, but I do think we’re leaning that way.”

“Let us know if there’s anything we can do to help convince you to make the move,” Ford said.

“There is one thing I wanted to bring up, a bit related to what you were talking about Stan, and something you most like should consider even I don’t stay, Ford,” Fiddleford said. “I was thinking about my problem and it seemed to me that the best way to avoid dealing with any more problems of the like in the future is to keep them from happening in the first place. Then I got to thinking about the portal and what’s going to happen once we get it up and running. What if some dangerous creature from this weirdness dimension manages to slip through, or what if we catch a specimen for study? We ain’t got the facilities to hold anything down there where the portal is, and your basement isn’t the best place to be keeping dangerous critters anyway.”

That was a very good point, and a concern that Ford was somewhat alarmed to realize he hadn’t previously considered. Perhaps building the trans-universal poly-dimensional meta-vortex in his basement hadn’t been the best idea, no matter how convenient it was. “I assume you have an idea of how to solve this problem?” he asked.

“I was thinking we ought to build a second laboratory, completely separate from the house here, where we can store and study any specimens. Something underground maybe, with the utmost precautions in paranormal security,” said Fiddleford.

Ford sighed. “I don’t like having to delay construction on the portal, but you’re right.” Not having any secure storage facilities for potentially dangerous creatures would be an unacceptable degree of risk even if it were only Ford living in his house. With Stan, Dipper, and Mabel here as well it was not only unacceptable, it was unthinkable. “We’ll wrap up installing and testing the Hyperdrive today, and tomorrow morning we can start scouting out potential secret locations for our hidden containment unit.”

“Wait, why exactly are you doing that?” Stan asked.

Ford turned to look at him in blatant disbelief. “Were you not listening just now? We have no idea what kind of beings await on the other side of the portal. They may be benevolent” – it was Stanford’s secret hope, despite having received no inkling from Bill this was true, that the dimension of his Muse awaited on the other side – “or harmless like the gnomes-“

“Harmless my ass,” Stan interrupted. “One of those guys _bit_ me the other day. And they keep stealing all our jam and my toffee peanuts.”

“Relatively harmless then,” Ford conceded, unable to help quirking a small smile at his brother’s antics. The smile dropped away fairly quickly however as he continued. “Or the creatures on the other side might be incredibly dangerous. There’s no way to be certain, so we have to take precautions.” It was unlike Stan to be so reckless. Reckless with his own safety, maybe, but not with the safety of the children at risk.

“Yeah, I got that part of it,” Stan said, rolling his eyes. “And I’m definitely a fan of any plan that involves us not having monsters from another dimension in our basement. Makes us much less likely to be one of the obligatory gruesome deaths when the monsters inevitably escape.”

“This isn’t some B horror movie,” Ford objected.

“I don’t know. We are talking about monsters from another dimension,” Fiddleford pointed out.

“Exactly,” Stan agreed. “So like I was saying, I get why you need an underground bunker; I’m just a little less clear on why it needs to be a secret.”

“Of course it has to be a secret,” Ford said.

“Okay, but why?”

“Because…” Ford glanced over at Fiddleford who looked as lost as he felt. “Because we don’t want any townsfolk coming into the bunker and witnessing the work we’re doing,” Ford declared firmly.

“And if one of the townsfolk does make their way into the bunker, they might accidentally set one of the creatures free,” Fiddleford added, and Ford nodded in agreement.

“Oh right, I forgot about all those people constantly breaking into our house and sneaking down to the basement to watch you work,” Stan said sarcastically.

“That’s different. This is our house; the bunker would be a place where people would know we were performing experiments. I’m not saying that anyone in town has malicious intentions, but some of them may let their curiosity about the work we’re doing get the better of them,” Ford argued.

“I got a news flash for you, Sixer: people know you’re performing experiments here too,” Stan said. “I don’t think anyone actually thinks you’re a mad scientist anymore – well, I’m pretty sure I’ve convinced them you aren’t experimenting on ghosts at least – but they still know you’re a scientist that works out of your house. If they aren’t coming in the house uninvited to check it out, they won’t be walking into your bunker either. Oh, and that reminds me. Dan told me to tell you that if you ever decided you did want to experiment on ghosts, his family’s old cabin out in the woods is apparently full of them.”

“Really? I’ll have to go investigate sometime,” Ford said. It was amazing how much more open people had become about the weirdness in Gravity Falls with him in the past six months. Even the people who he hadn’t built any sort of personal relationship were now suddenly comfortable sharing all manner of stories. Granted, at least half of what they told him turned out to be total nonsense, but he preferred having too many leads to follow to too few. Besides, Boyish Dan had proven himself to be a fairly reliable source of information. Just last week he had corrected Ford’s embarrassing gaffe of referring to the tree giant as Steve when he actually preferred to go by his full first name, Steven.

“You know Ford, I think Stan might be right about this secrecy thing. I admit I was thinking it had to be a secret same as you, but I don’t think there’s any real reason for that,” Fiddleford said.

“Yes, I suppose there isn’t.” At least, none aside from the fact Ford had really been looking forward to building his own secret lair. Although that did raise a good point for the opposing side. “If we don’t keep it an absolute secret that will make construction of the bunker a lot easier. We can hire some of the local lumberjacks to do it, rather than trying to handle it ourselves. It’ll be done quicker and we can still work on the portal in the meanwhile.”

“You were planning on having the three of us build the bunker?” Stan asked, his tone incredulous.

“Of course; how else would we have kept it a secret?” Ford said.

“I don’t know, hire some shady guys from out of town to do construction in the dead of night? There’s got to be some other way than doing it ourselves. You got any idea how long that would take?”

“A while I would assume, but not too terribly long. Dan was able to get this house built in fairly short order even with the multiple basement levels,” Ford pointed out.

“Yeah, but Dan is also a professional lumberjack and the size of a small bear, whereas Fidds here weighs 100 pounds soaking wet,” Stan said.

“Hey, I grew up on a hog farm. I’m stronger than I look,” Fiddleford objected.

“I know you are; I’ve seen you carting some pretty heavy stuff around while constructing that portal. My point is if you and your wiry strength are our biggest assets, then that bunker ain’t getting finished any time this year,” Stan said. “If you guys really want to keep this thing completely under wraps then I’ll help, I just think it’s a bad idea.”

“I think you may be right,” Ford acknowledged. Even if he suspected Stan was exaggerating how long it would take the three of them to build the bunker, it certainly wasn’t an exaggeration that it would be done much quicker with help. It made sense to sacrifice some degree of secrecy in exchange for that, especially as Ford still couldn’t articulate any real reason for needing secrecy, and they could still at least keep the entrance somewhat remote and hidden. “Alright, then tomorrow we’ll scout out a good location for the bunker and contact Dan about getting some people together to help build it. That was good advice, thank you Stan.”

“I’m sure you two nerds would have figured something out eventually,” Stan said with a shrug. It was strangely incongruent, the way Stan could at time crow and brag about his own abilities, but then turn around and brush off compliments and gratitude from others as though his contributions couldn’t possibly matter.

“Maybe we would have, but not as quickly or as well. We’re lucky we have you here to be the voice of common sense,” Ford said.

Stan finally gave a pleased half-smile. “Yeah, well, you know. Anytime Sixer.”

 

* * *

 

In retrospect, Stan’s good advice had turned out to be excellent advice, and his exaggeration had been perhaps not as much as one as Ford had initially suspected. Even with the group of lumberjacks Dan had recruited and actual construction equipment it had taken a full two months to finish the bunker. Fiddleford had taken point in overseeing the work and liaising with the lumberjacks, though Ford or Stan had sometimes handled it instead. It had largely depended on the work going on with the portal and what was happening with the children on any given day.

Dipper and Mabel had taken Ford’s new work outside the home surprisingly well. While they obviously preferred him working from home – Ford would have been worried and disappointed if they hadn’t preferred it when he was home – they had accepted his occasional work outside with equanimity and a good deal of confidence of his return each time. While Ford had no plans for any more overnight trips for the foreseeable future, he had started to go out more frequently and for longer stretches of time as the weeks passed, exploring the forest and the anomalies within for the first time – discounting the camping trip when Ford had been too worried to truly enjoy himself – since the children arrived. It was much like Fiddleford had said about seeing his family again; Ford hadn’t realized how much he missed it until he was out doing it again.

That wasn’t what he was doing today, however. Today he was giving the bunker a final inspection before he declared it completely finished and ready for use. Fiddleford had already done one such inspection himself the day before, but it never hurt to be extra thorough. Besides, Ford doubted Fiddleford had had the foresight to test if their coffee machine in the bunker room was functioning properly. And that was an absolutely vital piece of equipment.

Ford was sipping on his cup of coffee – mark that test up as a success – as he exited the bunker when he heard Dan call to him. The bunker itself might be finished, but there was still some work to be done on the land around it to make sure the area looked natural while still leaving the space open and the bunker easily accessible even if they had a large caged creature in tow. Dan was handling that work by himself and had been hard at it when Ford had arrived earlier. “Ford, that you?” Dan asked.

“Yes it’s me.” Who else would it be coming out of the bunker? Unless the lumberjacks hadn’t been entirely truthful in their claims that they’d only found mole men skeletons and no live mole men. “Is there something wrong?”

“I don’t know about wrong. I found a weird egg you should maybe come take a look at. Seems like it might be your kind of thing,” Dan said, coming into view.

Ford followed him to a hillock he’d been digging into where the egg Dan had mentioned was, still two-thirds buried in the dirt. Ford knelt in front of it, setting his coffee mug to the side, and carefully extracted the egg the rest of the way out of the ground. Upon unearthing it, Ford found himself mentally agreeing with Dan assessment that there was likely something paranormal about it. Even setting aside the oddity of finding an egg buried underground, it was far too big to belong to any of the local bird species. Ford brushed the dirt off the egg and set it back down, only for it to immediately start rocking and hatch open.

What crawled out was a pale larval creature with red bug eyes that was, frankly, fairly ugly. The creature spotted the coffee mug Ford had set down before it had even finished crawling out of its egg and in an instant transformed itself into a duplicate mug.

“A shapeshifter!” Ford cried, delighted. He glanced over his shoulder at Dan. “Have you ever heard of one of those being found locally before?”

“Can’t say I have,” Dan replied.

“Fascinating,” Ford said. A moment later his common sense worked its way through his excitement and he reached into his pocket to pull out two of the surgical masks he kept stuffed in there – you never knew when you might encounter a creature or other anomaly that gave off noxious or even toxic fumes, or a just group of barf fairies. He strapped the first mask on his own face while handing the second to Dan.

“What’s that for?” Dan asked.

“We don’t yet know the extent of its shapeshifting ability. Under the circumstances it would be prudent to keep it from getting too good a look at our faces,” Ford explained.

Dan nodded and pulled the mask on. “What are you planning on doing with it?”

“I suppose it’ll be the first specimen for our bunker,” Ford said. The shapeshifter turned back to its larval form and looked up at Ford, its expression reminiscent of a dog excited for praise after having preformed a trick. Ford obligingly patted him on the head. On second look, he was actually rather cute in his own way. “I’ll call him Shifty.”


	29. Chapter Twenty-Nine

“I suppose it’s good timing at least,” Fiddleford said looking down at Shifty with a faint hint of distaste, though that was probably due to the fact that Shifty was steadily working his way through one of Fiddleford’s cans of beans. Ford just hadn’t been sure what else to feed the little guy – he wasn’t even sure if Shifty’s species was carnivorous or herbivorous, so beans had seemed like the best way to split the difference. Shifty certainly seemed to like them at least.

“How do you mean?”

“It’s good timing because we need to test out the cryonics on our storage tubes, and now we got a specimen for it.”

“We can’t freeze Shifty,” Ford objected.

Fiddleford gave him a look. It was distinctly unimpressed. “Ford, I’m going to tell you the same thing my Pa told me when I was a kid and wanted to keep the raccoon we found rooting around in our trash can. You can’t keep a wild animal as a pet. No matter how cute and cuddly they may be” – Fiddleford looked skeptically down at Shifty, and admittedly he wasn’t all that cuddly, but Shifty was cute! In his own way – “they’re not tame, and it’ll only end badly.”

“Obviously I’m not going to be reckless about this. I didn’t bring him home and hand him over to Dipper and Mabel to play with unsupervised. I put him in a cage, and had you come out to the bunker to look at him.” Technically it was a pet carrier, but close enough. The point was Shifty was secure and would remain so until Ford was fully convinced he was safe.

“It’s still a bad idea, and we still need to test the cryogenic tubes. We ought to freeze him, so let’s go ahead and do that,” Fiddleford said.

“At the very least I want to run some tests first. This is an entirely new species here. We can circle back to the discussion of using him to test the cryonics later.” After Fiddleford had a chance to get as attached to Shifty as Ford already was.

Fiddleford sighed. “Alright, run your tests, and then we’ll freeze him.”

 

* * *

 

“Try this one now,” Ford said, holding up a picture of a car – actually a flashcard from when he’d been helping Mabel learn her letters. It had taken two full days for Shifty to grasp that he was supposed to transform into the picture on the card and not into the card itself, but now he knew well enough to turn himself into a perfect recreation of the car. A perfect recreation at approximately 1/15 of a car’s actual size.

Granted, the picture didn’t give any context to give Shifty a sense of scale, so it wouldn’t be surprising if he merely defaulted to a size close to his own natural state. However, Ford suspected there was something else at work here as well. Both before and after the shift, and indeed in every form Shifty had taken in this session today, the read-out on the scale stayed exactly the same. It supported Ford’s hypothesis that Shifty’s transformations were still bound by the law of conservation of mass. He could adjust his overall size by a certain degree by affecting his body’s density, but he was ultimately bound by how much matter made him up.

Ford looked up from jotting down the results of the car transformation to see Shifty had changed form again. He had morphed back into the golden retriever puppy shape and was looking up at Ford with beseeching eyes and an excitedly wagging tail.

Ford laughed. “Okay, I suppose it’s time for a lunch break,” he said, and Shifty’s tail wagged even faster.

 

* * *

 

The second Ford inserted the needle into Shifty’s skin, Shifty transformed into a prickly sea urchin. Luckily the needle was not dislodged by this, or conversely lodged in too deeply, allowing Ford to quickly draw the blood sample – using the term blood loosely, as it was bright green and appeared far more viscous than anything seen in average Earth animals. He removed the needle as soon as he was finished and set it down for a moment so he could pet the space between Shifty’s spikes. “I’m sorry. I know that stung, but it’s all done now.”

In retaliation, Shifty grew more spikes.

 

* * *

 

“Beans!” said a high, otherwordly, parrot-like voice.

Parrot-like turned out to be a very apt description, as Ford turned to find Shifty in the shape of an African Grey, albeit a somewhat small one for a bird of that species. As soon as Ford was looking at him, Shifty repeated, “Beans!”

“Shifty! You taught yourself to talk?” That was amazing. Shifty was just continually amazing.

Shifty cocked his head so he could regard Ford with a single beady eye. “Yes. Beans!” He clacked his wickedly curved beak in agitation.

Ford couldn’t help but chuckle. Speech or no, it seemed Shifty’s priorities remained the same. He ate a prodigious amount of food, though that was perhaps explained by the rate at which he grew. Only a week since he had hatched, and Ford was already planning on bringing in a larger cage tomorrow for him. That, and all evidence seemed to indicate that his shapeshifting ability took a lot of energy.

Ford fetched a fresh can of beans and placed it in Shifty’s cage. Shifty turned into a weasel and possessively wrapped himself around the can, tearing into the food with his needle-like teeth. He finished in short order, upon which he used his paws to swipe his whiskers clean and demanded “More.”

Ford went to grab another can. It seemed any attempts at conversation or language lessons would have to wait.

 

* * *

 

“Journal,” Shifty said. He was currently in the form of a black kitten with white paws and a white splotch on his nose. Though he was probably closer in size to a lion cub than a regular house cat.

“Yes, this is my journal,” Ford praised, holding up the book he had been writing in. “Your vocabulary is getting very good.”

“No. Journal. See. Want,” Shifty said.

Ford frowned for a moment as he tried to parse out Shifty’s meaning. “You want to see my journal?”

“Yes,” Shifty agreed, purring and narrowing his eyes in pleasure. How could Ford say no to that face? Maybe just a little peek.

Ford flipped through the pages until he got to the one on gnomes. There, that was mostly harmless. “Here you are,” Ford said, showing Shifty the page.

Shifty easily transformed into a gnome and grinned up at Ford before flowing back to the cat form. “More?” he chirped, tilting his head to the side.

“No, that’s enough,” Ford replied. He closed the journal and set it down on the desk.

“More!” Shifty put his paws up against the side of his cage, his claws curling outside the bars. “Want see journal!”

“I said that’s enough,” Ford repeated firmly. Then, worried that maybe he’d been too harsh, he relented somewhat. “I’ll bring you more pictures of animals tomorrow.”

 

* * *

 

“Bye, Shifty. I’ll be back tonight to feed you your dinner,” Ford said as he and Fiddleford were wrapping up their work in the bunker for the day.

“Who am I?”

Ford paused. Shifty had never asked that before, and it certainly wasn’t the kind of question he could let pass without at least some kind of answer. “You’re Shifty. You are a juvenile member of a shapeshifting species, the first and so far only one of your kind that we’ve ever encountered.”

“Who am I?” he asked again.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what else to tell you,” Ford said. Maybe if he had more time to formulate a response, but Shifty had kind of put him on the spot with this. “All I can say is that all these test have been in large part working toward figuring that out.”

That answer was apparently unsatisfactory, as Shifty morphed into an alarmingly large rat and hissed at him. Then to further make his displeasure known, Shifty went to the corner of his cage and curled up in his dog bed, pointedly facing away from Ford.

Ford waited a few moments, but it quickly became apparent Shifty wasn’t going to turn back around any time soon, so Ford bid him good-bye again and left with Fiddleford.

“Well that was a mite disturbing,” Fiddleford said.

“I don’t think so. Shifty has proven to be fairly intelligent, and this is an atypical situation. It’s not surprising that he might come to wonder at the nature of his existence.”

“That’s not the part I was talking about,” Fiddleford muttered, but Ford’s mind had already moved on to the next topic.

“Do you think Shifty would like it if I got him an aquarium so he could try fish and other aquatic forms out?” Ford asked. Shifty did so enjoy learning new shapes. Having such a wide range of new choices open up to him might lift his spirits.

“I think unless you’re planning on getting some fish for yourself later that sounds like a waste, since we’re going to be using Shifty to test the cryogenic tubes out in the near future,” Fiddleford said. Ford was beginning to suspect Fiddleford had mentally categorized Shifty as livestock, because he was remaining remarkably unsentimental about the little guy.

“Ah well, just something to think on,” Ford said, dodging the topic of the cryogenic tubes. Livestock or no, he was sure Fiddleford would come around eventually.

 

* * *

 

Shifty paced back and forth in his cage, changing rapidly between forms. “Are you alright?” Ford asked.

“No,” Shifty said, the sound coming out as a deep growl from his bulldog chest before he flicked forms again to an over-sized chameleon.

“What can I do?”

“Let me see your journal,” Shifty demanded.

“I’ve told you time and time again, you can’t see it. It’s too dangerous.” Ford tried to keep his tone even and patient, but it really was beginning to get on his nerves the way Shifty kept after something he knew he wasn’t allowed to have. “What else can I do for you? Would you like to stretch your legs for a bit?” While Ford obviously couldn’t let Shifty roam free around the bunker, he did try to make sure he got a chance to walk around some when Ford could supervise him.

“No. I want to see your journal,” he bit out.

“Well you can’t. If there’s nothing else you want, then I’m going to go home now. I’ll be back tomorrow when hopefully you’ll be in a better mood.”

Shifty leaped at the front of the cage, turning into a fox mid-jump. The whole cage rocked with the force when he slammed into the door. Shifty didn’t seem to notice, too intent on glaring and snarling at Ford.

Ford sighed, then left without another word.

 

* * *

 

“Good morning,” Ford said absently upon hearing the door open. His gaze stayed intent on the readout screens for the cryogenics tubes in the storage room. He’d gotten in a little earlier than usual, and had spent the time looking over all the data they had, trying in vain to find some further mechanical adjustments that would be necessary before they moved on to animal trials.

“Good morning,” Fiddleford said, sounding rather off, though that was easily explained by the coughing fit he immediately descended into.

Ford looked up at his friend in concern. “Are you alright?”

“My throat hurts something awful, and I can’t stop coughing,” Fiddleford said. His point was unintentionally underscored when he immediately started coughing again.

“No offense, but you do sound pretty terrible,” Ford said. “Are you sure you’re okay to work today? You can go home, or back to my house, to rest if you think you need to.”

“I don’t know if I’m okay” – another coughing fit – “okay to work or not. All this coughing has got me worried. I was actually hoping you’d let me look in your journal for a cure.”

Ford gave him an odd look. “There isn’t a cure for a cough in my journal. You know that’s not the kind of research I do.” The closest thing to what Fiddleford was asking for would be his notes on the pixies’ healing spring in Journal 1, but that only worked on pixies.

Fiddleford shook his head vigorously through another round of coughs. “There is a cure. I saw it in there the other day, but I can’t remember what all it said. I need to see it again.”

“I’m not sure what you’re thinking of, but it wasn’t any kind of cough remedy. I assure you there isn’t one of those in any of the journals.” He ought to know, he was the one who wrote them. He would concede it was possible, probable really, that he might have forgotten some of what he’d written in the past six-and-a-half years, but that would be in the details, not the general contents. And even if he forgotten it before, he’d read the journals with the children, Dipper especially, so many times at this point he’d be surprised if there wasn’t any page he couldn’t recite almost verbatim from memory. He was definitely one hundred percent certain that none of them included a cure for a cough.

“Why don’t you take some cough drops out of the first aid kit?” Ford suggested instead. “If that doesn’t help, we’ve got cold medicine back at my house; you could go back there, take some, and then rest for a while.”

“No, the cure I need is in the journal. It’s the only thing that can fix me. I need your journal,” Fiddleford insisted. He was getting decidedly jittery and on edge. With him already feeling unwell, he didn’t need anxiety problems exacerbating the situation, so Ford relented.

“Okay, you can look through the journal if it’s that important to you. Just don’t get too upset when the cure isn’t in there,” he said.

bFord reached inside his coat, then frowned when he found the pocket that usually held his journal empty. “Maybe I left it in the bunk room,” he muttered before turning to Fiddleford. “Wait here one minute; I’ll go check for it.” Hopefully he hadn’t left it back at the house. Though frankly if he had, then Fiddleford would just have to wait and make do with the cough drops for now. Ford would go back to the house for lunch and grab the journal then, but he wasn’t making a special trip back for what was ultimately a fool’s errand anyway.

As soon as he entered the bunk room, before he could start his search for the journal, he heard a muffled sound coming from the tall cabinet in the corner. Concerned about what he was increasingly convinced was the very real possibility of mole men, Ford open the cabinet door.

Fiddleford. Fiddleford bound and gagged and curled up in the fetal position, rocking himself back and forth ever so slightly. That was the noise Ford had heard, the back of Fiddleford’s head rhythmically hitting against the side of the cabinet. It took Ford a moment of utter shock to even begin to process what he was seeing, then he immediately flagellated himself for wasting even that little amount of time. Fiddleford was in trouble, there would be time enough for shock later.

As he untied Fiddleford, Ford’s eyes couldn’t help but to briefly dart over to the other corner of the room where Shifty’s cage was kept. Ford hadn’t wanted to believe the obvious conclusion his mind had drawn the instant he opened the cabinet door, but there was no denying the grim facts of the situation: a being who looked a great deal like Fiddleford, but still seemed off, barging in and demanding Ford’s journal; what was very clearly the real Fiddleford tied up and stuffed in a cabinet; and the shapeshifter’s solid steel cage busted wide open.

“This is all my fault,” Ford said as he helped Fiddleford out of the cabinet and over to sit on the bed. Fiddleford made a noise, though whether it was one of agreement, denial, or some other emotion completely dissociated from Ford’s statement he couldn’t tell. It was clear that Fiddleford’s anxiety had once again left him in the near catatonic state he’d been in after the gremloblin attack. Another incident that Ford could plausibly take the blame for.

Ford cast about the room quickly, and thankfully spotted Fiddleford’s Cubic’s Cube sitting on the desktop. He grabbed it and brought it to Fiddleford, gently wrapping his friend’s hands around it when he didn’t seem inclined to grab it himself. “Here, try to meditate if you can,” he said, though he still wasn’t entirely sure Fiddleford was hearing him. Even if he was, Fiddleford honestly hadn’t been taking to his meditation lessons very well at all. But it was the only thing Ford could come up with to help off-hand, and he didn’t have time to think of anything better. No matter how bad Fiddleford’s anxiety attack was, the very physically powerful and apparently malevolent shapeshifter in the other room was the more pressing issue at the moment.

Ford tore through the collection of books they had in the bunker until he found one of approximately the right size and shape – a plumbing manual left down here during construction. He grabbed a can of gold spray paint also left down in the bunker and quickly drew a six-fingered hand on the front. It wouldn’t be in the least bit convincing if held to any level of scrutiny, but Ford thought it might be enough to make his crazy plan work.

He allowed just a minute for the paint to dry, then tossed the book down the chute that lead directly into the cryogenic tubes. The idea that Fiddleford and Ford had had when installing the chute was that one of them could throw a dangerous creature down it while the other waited in the observation room, ready to activate the cryonics the moment the creature appeared in the tube. Ford could only hope the imposter Fiddleford in the observation room right now wasn’t watching.

He turned to head back to the observation room, but when he reached to pull open the hatch to the security room, his hand was trembling.

Waiting through there was Shifty. Shifty, who Ford had had since the strangely cute bug-eyed larval creature had hatched. Shifty, who turned into a tail-wagging puppy when he was happy and a prickly sea urchin when he was upset. Shifty, who Ford had raised and loved and cared for. Shifty, who had bound and gagged Ford’s best friend, stuffed him in a cabinet, and left him nearly mute with anxiety. There was no telling what Shifty might do to Ford after he’d gotten his hands on the journal and all the forms contained within. And what if he managed to escape the bunker, what if he found his way back to the house and Stan and Dipper and Mabel?

Ford clenched his fist to stop the trembling and took a deep breath. He had to do this. He could do this. Just pretend to be Stan. Not literally, of course, but if for the next five minutes Ford aped his brother’s relaxed confidence and easy charm, then he could do this. He _could_ do this. Ford crawled through the hatch.

“Now I remember,” he announced as he walked back into the observation room. He didn’t allow himself to falter not even at the sight of the imposter Fiddleford involuntarily shaking with impatience nor when he noticed how the steel armrests had bent under the force of his grip. “I went to look at the cryogenics tubes first thing when I got in this morning. I recall setting the journal down inside of one of the tubes when I was looking it over and must have forgotten to pick it up again afterwards. Why don’t you go in the storage room and…”

Ford trailed off, the shapeshifter having already darted off to retrieve the “journal.” The second he was certain he was out of the creature’s sight, Ford ran over the control panel. When the shapeshifter entered the tube, Ford slammed his hand down on the red button to activate it.

The shapeshifter _screamed_ , a high inhuman sound that echoed through the open door to the storage room and clawed at Ford’s soul. He shifted rapid-fire through several different forms trying to escape, but Fiddleford had designed the cryogenic tubes well. Finally the shapeshifter settled on a form Ford had never seen before. It had an elongated body sitting atop four spider legs, one overlarge arm and one arm that was long and spindly, a circular mouth full of razor-sharp teeth, and translucent skin and red bug eyes. It didn’t look cute anymore.

As soon as the freezing process finished, Ford went back to the bunk room. Fiddleford was still sitting on the bed, his eyes staring unseeingly into space. The Cubic’s Cube had dropped unnoticed into his lap. Ford still didn’t know what to do for him, but the first step had to be leaving the site of his attack.

“Come on,” Ford said as he helped Fiddleford up. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to send some props out to my little brother on this one. As I was working on this chapter I realized there was a MASSIVE PLOT HOLE in Journal 3 for this part. My brother hasn't seen GF (not for lack of trying on my part, I assure you) but when I explained the situation to him in a non-spoilery way, he immediately came up with the solution. Thanks bro-bro.


	30. Chapter Thirty

The basement was dark.

Not terribly so, obviously. It was a workspace, and they had to have enough light to be able to do their work effectively. There weren’t any windows with natural light or any floodlights, but there were enough lamps and such scattered around and enough glow from the machine’s interfaces to get by just fine. But still, the basement was dark and close.

Again, there was a lack of windows around the place which made it feel smaller than it was, but in square footage it was actually real big. The partially constructed portal took up a good bit of space, and the control room was smaller and even more cluttered, but there was plenty of room to move around in. Despite that, there was something about being underground that made the walls press in ever so slightly. The basement was dark and close, and Fiddleford had had a nightmare last night.

He’d already long since erased the memory of what happened in the bunker, back on the morning after it had happened. He would have done it that same night, but he kept the memory gun safely in his apartment, and Stan and Ford had insisted he spend the night at the Pines residence after Shifty had attacked him. The trouble was, while Fiddleford had erased the memory, he couldn’t afford to erase the memory of the memory. He had to know the basic facts of what had happened because if the subject ever came up he had to be able to convincingly pretend that he did remember it. If it came out that he had forgotten, it wouldn’t take long for the other two to put the truth together, and he couldn’t allow that to happen. Last time when Ford had tried to destroy the memory gun, Fiddleford had made a mistake. He’d been sleep-deprived and panicked Ford was going to take away the one thing to give him relief, and he’d made a mistake he’d promised himself he’d never make again. At the same time, he had no illusions about the willingness of Ford or Stan to physically take the memory gun away from him and destroy it if they thought they were doing it for his own good. This was where striking this delicate balance between the two had left him. The basement was dark and close, and Fiddleford had had a nightmare last night, and the memory gun hidden in his pocket.

“I’m going upstairs for a minute; I’m feeling a mite puckish,” Fiddleford announced and left the room before Ford had time to respond. He just needed to get out of the basement for a little. Get some sunlight, some fresh air, a glass of sweet tea to settle his nerves. He wasn’t going to use the memory gun. Even though it was a very useful tool, by far the most effective one he’d had in controlling his anxiety the past week when his necessarily incomplete memory erasure continued to give him the occasional bad moment, it was too risky to use it here. He shouldn’t have even brought it over in the first place, but he’d been struck with an undeniable compulsion to grab it when he’d walked out the door this morning.

There was no one in the main house when Fiddleford got up there. He’d forgotten to put his watch on that morning, but he’d guess it was time for the kids to be in school right now, and Stan was probably out running an errand or some such. He ought to be relieved about that; Ford was too absorbed in work right now to notice much, but Stan was certainly liable to pick up on how on edge Fiddleford was at the moment. Still it would be nice to have someone to talk to for a distraction from the dark echoes in his mind.

He went into the kitchen and pulled open the curtains to let the sunlight in. After a long look at the door, he decided to crack open the window a little for fresh air instead. The weather had warmed up a good bit the last few days, but it wasn’t feeling like spring out there just yet either.

With the room as bright and open as he could make it, Fiddleford went to grab the iced tea out of the fridge. The first glass he downed in one long gulp, but when he went to pour himself a second glass he accidentally splashed a fair amount on the counter. It wasn’t until he was trying to rip a paper towel off the roll to wipe up the spill that he noticed how badly his hands were trembling.

Fiddleford began pacing the room, shaking his hands out vigorously, as though that might stop the trembling. He was fine. He was handling it. He could handle it until he went back to the apartment that evening and could use the memory gun to provide himself some relief. Although… Ford was still down in the basement right now, and with the kids and Stan out that meant the main level of the house was empty. There was no one around to see if Fiddleford took the memory gun out right now and used it. It would only take a second. It would be fine.

He reached into his coat pocket and grabbed the gun. He tried to dial in the specific memory to erase – his nightmare from the night before – quickly to reduce the chances of getting caught, but doing that with his unsteady hands only caused him to type it in wrong. He had to blank out the display so he could start over, only growing more and more anxious with each passing second.

“Hey Fiddleford! I happened to check the time right after you left and realized that I might as well come up too.”

Fiddleford yelped, fumbling with the gun for a minute and almost dropping it. That left him no time to stuff it back in his coat before Ford came round the corner into the kitchen. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” Ford said. “I was… what is that?”

“It’s, uh… I,” Fiddleford stammered, searching desperately for a lie or distraction or excuse or something, anything.

“It’s your memory gun. But we destroyed that. I remember…” Ford’s words faltered for a moment as his eyes turned distant and thoughtful before snapping back to Fiddleford with laser intensity. “I don’t remember. I remember you telling me we’d destroyed the gun, but I don’t remember actually destroying it or ever seeing the pieces of it afterward. You erased my memory.”

“Only a few minutes of it,” Fiddleford blurted, then immediately realized that was the wrong thing to say. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re _sorry_? You shot my brain full of radiation and destroyed neural pathways without my knowledge or consent and you’re _sorry_?”

“I am.” Maybe it wasn’t enough to make up for what he had done, but he was sorry for it. “I was just so scared you were trying to take away my memory gun, and I need it.”

“And that makes it okay?” Ford shot back incredulously.

“Course not. I know I’d done tarred it up big time. I’m only sayin’ I was panicked and sleep-deprived and I made a mistake. I’m sorry; it won’t happen again.”

“You’re damn right it won’t,” Ford said. He took a deep breath and visibly tried to calm himself. Fiddleford didn’t get much of an impression that it worked too well. “Obviously we a long overdue a serious and lengthy discussion about your anxiety issues and how you’re going to handle them if you stay on the project. Which we will do right after we destroy the memory gun.”

Fiddleford’s objections that he wanted to stay on the project, that he was handling things, that he was fine, died in his mouth. He pulled the memory gun in closer to his chest. “I need this gun Stanford. I _need_ it. I can’t let you destroy it.”

“I can’t let you keep it. Even aside for all the reasons I gave you before about it being a tremendously bad idea, _you erased my memory_. I can’t trust you with it any more. Give me the gun, Fiddleford,” Ford said. He held his hand out and took a step toward Fiddleford, making Fiddleford take an instinctive step back. “Give me the gun, or I will take it from you.”

Five minutes. Just five minutes. That’s all it had taken for everything to start falling to pieces. Fiddleford needed the memory gun, he couldn’t handle dealing with the dangerous creatures here without it. He wanted to stay in Gravity Falls and he wanted to finish their project and keep working with Ford and he liked his job and he liked Gravity Falls and he needed his memory gun. Just five minutes.

Five minutes was that long, was it? It wasn’t that much time to lose. Fiddleford had seen Ford lose more than twice as much time daydreaming multiple times before. And he wouldn’t be losing anything important, not really. Just some private business of Fiddleford’s that he didn’t need to know about. And no matter what Ford thought, the memory gun wasn’t dangerous. Fiddleford had used it on himself plenty of times with no ill effects. It was just five minutes.

Fiddleford let his hand twist on the dial, making it look like aimless nervous movement while actually being very, very careful. He wasn’t going to mess this up and he wasn’t going to hurt Ford. He didn’t want to do it at all, he didn’t, but he didn’t see any other choice. It was just five minutes.

Slowly he brought the gun up, and Ford took a step closer prepared to accept the hand-off. Then at the last possible moment, Fiddleford said, “I’m _sorry_ ,” closed his eyes, and pulled the trigger.

There was a gasp, and Fiddleford whirled to face the intruder, gun at the ready.

He froze. Dipper. Dipper was standing in the doorway. Apparently it was later than Fiddleford realized, and Stan had been gone picking up the children from school, and now Dipper was standing in the doorway to the kitchen having presumably seen everything. There was no getting out of this now. The children hadn’t been told about the memory gun – not to Fiddleford’s knowledge – but Dipper was certain to ask about what he’d just seen, and Ford was smart enough that he’d be able to put together what had actually happened. Even if Fiddleford were to wipe Ford’s memory again, Dipper would just ask more questions and repeat the cycle all over and over until something else happened to break it – and it wouldn’t be broken in Fiddleford’s favor. Not unless… He looked at Dipper and his trigger finger twitched.

Fiddleford looked at Dipper, and he could hear Ford’s voice in his head. His vehement outburst when Fiddleford had suggested he could use the memory gun on Dipper and Mabel, his distaste of the entire concept of the memory gun, his insistence that using it was like killing a part of someone. Suddenly it wasn’t Dipper standing in the doorway at all, but Tate. Sweet little Tate looking up at him confused and wary, but trusting. Fiddleford could see Tate, and he could see someone taking advantage of that trust to do something to his son that he considered absolutely repugnant. And that was what he was about to become.

Mere seconds after he turned toward Dipper, the memory gun clattered to the floor.

The noise was enough to catch Ford’s attention and bring him out of the momentarily confused state brought about by the gun. His eyes darted back and forth between the gun on the ground and Dipper in the doorway, rapidly putting the pieces together. Then he turned to Fiddleford. “What did you do?” His words were hard, implacable, and precise, as though craved from stone. In that moment Fiddleford realized that he’d seen Ford upset and raging before, but he’d never seen him really and truly angry.

“I didn’t– wouldn’t–” Ford’s anger was a tangible presence in the room pressing down on Fiddleford’s chest until he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak, could only shrink away, backing up until he ran into the kitchen counter and couldn’t even do that anymore.

“Daddy?” asked Dipper, his voice high and scared. “I don’t – I was just gonna get a snack.”

“You’re fine, son,” Ford said, looking at Dipper and with visible effort softening his expression. “But the snack is going to have to wait. Let me finish with Fiddleford, and then we’re going to go play with your sister for a little while, okay?”

Ford waited until Dipper gave a shaky nod, then turned back to Fiddleford. He crossed the room, his movement quick, but heavy and deliberate. Fiddleford cringed, but Ford stopped a few feet short of him. His last step came down with two distinct cracks and a shattering crunch. “You stay the hell away from my children,” he said. He exited the room without further fanfare, sweeping Dipper up on his way out and leaving on the searing image on an unyielding back and above his shoulder a pair of wide, frightened eyes.

Fiddleford dropped to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. He lay there haphazardly, taking in gasping breaths. He’d messed up. He’d fucked everything up. Father in Heaven please forgive him, because Ford never would. It was all in ruins now, and he was not handling it.

Slowly he crawled his way over to the shattered remains of the memory gun. He had to fix it. If he could just forget, just erase this all from his mind. His hands were shaking, and his vision was blurry, and the pieces wouldn’t go back together. It would never go back together ever again. But he kept picking up new pieces and trying. He had to fix it.

“Whoa, whoa Fidds, stop that. You’re going to hurt yourself.” Fiddleford sensed more than saw Stan crouch down in front of him, though he couldn’t help but see Stan’s hands when they wrapped around his wrists. Fiddleford dropped the two shards of glass he was holding and let Stan turn his hands face up. There was blood smeared across Fiddleford’s palms, welling up from a network of scratches. “I guess it’s a little late for that warning, huh?”

“I need to fix it,” Fiddleford said, his focus already drifted away from his hands back to the pieces of the gun.

“Even if that wasn’t a terrible idea, you know you still probably be better off buying a new lightbulb rather than trying to force this one back together through willpower,” Stan said.

Fiddleford gave a jerky nod. Stan was right. He shook the hands off his wrists and reached for two pieces of the gun proper instead. Stan sighed, but let him.

“Did you use this thing on Ford like he says you did?”

“Yes,” Fiddleford admitted, nearly choking on the word.

“Did you use it on Dipper?”

“No! I wouldn’t, I _couldn’t_.” Fiddleford didn’t look up at Stan. He couldn’t bear to see the anger and mistrust again.

“Yeah, I know you couldn’t,” Stan agreed. A small sob escaped Fiddleford. “But I also know that you know that I can’t let you fix this thing.”

“I need it,” Fiddleford pleaded.

“No you don’t.”

“You don’t understand.” None of them understood. They didn’t understand the way the fear and anxiety pressed down on him, closed in and curled its way into his gut, into his head, until he couldn’t think, couldn’t function, couldn’t anything. The memory gun was the only thing that could blast that all away. “I _need_ it.”

“Fidds, look at me.” Stan’s tone was soft, but commanding, and Fiddleford couldn’t help but obey. They locked gazes and just for an instant, Stan’s normal jovial air was stripped away and in his eyes Fiddleford could see depths of pain and sorrow that matched, surpassed, Fiddleford’s own. “You don’t need it. You’d be surprised what a person is capable of when they don’t have any other choice.” Stan gently took the pieces of the memory gun out of Fiddleford’s hands and placed them back on the ground. “Now let’s go to the bathroom” – he winced – “the _upstairs_ bathroom and get your hands cleaned up. We’ll figure out the rest from there.”


	31. Chapter Thirty-One

_“It was an attack! No matter the exact mechanics of it Fiddleford attacked me, and worse he attacked my children,” Ford raged, though his implacable cold fury had blunted somewhat since the afternoon. As angry as he was – and he was, righteously, furiously angry – there was confusion there too. “We’ve been friends for nearly a decade and lived together or near to it for a good portion of that time. How could he turn around and do something like this?”_

_“Don’t look at me,” Bill said. “I’m on your side.”_

_Ford whirled around and began pacing in the other direction, though it wasn’t really pacing. His mindscape seemed continually disinclined to manifest any sort of floor to pace on, so he was left doing a sort of forcefully directed floating. It was not helping to improve his mood any._

_“At least someone is. Fiddleford attacks me, and then Stanley sticks up for him. The first real fight we’ve had since we sorted things out between us and it’s because he wants to defend the person who was mucking about with my mind.” Not just a fight, but one where Stanley had apparently seen fit to resort to nuclear options, threatening to leave if Fiddleford weren’t allowed to stay where Stanley could look after him. In the end Stanford had conceded that Fiddleford could stay in the house, but only under the conditions that he stay in Stanley’s room at all times save for trips to the restroom, and he not interact in any way with Stanford or the children. Even so, that Fiddleford was still in his house at all after what he’d done galled Stanford to no end. “I should not have to put up with this, especially not from my own brother. I can’t believe Stanley would behave this way.”_

_“I can. I mean this isn’t exactly the first time Stanley decided that you both were going to do what he wanted without caring about what you wanted.”_

_The implication of Bill’s words was obvious, and paradoxically it deflated Ford’s anger. “That’s not entirely fair.” It was how Ford had seen the science fair incident for many years certainly, but he understood now that Stan had merely made a mistake and moreover had his own reasons for his actions that had nothing to do with disregarding Ford’s feelings. Bill knew that, why would he bring it up to imply otherwise?_

_Unless perhaps that was Bill’s point? To remind Ford of an incident when he’d previously misjudged Stan’s motives to illuminate the possibility that the same was happening here. There was that one sticking point they’d had in their fight earlier that evening. “You know, Stan really was very insistent that Fiddleford hadn’t used the memory gun on Dipper or Mabel.” He contended that Fiddleford wasn’t capable of doing something like that to the kids and furthermore had no reason to lie about it if he was coming clean about using the gun on Ford anyway. Ford countered that they wouldn’t have thought Fiddleford capable of secretly using the gun on Ford either until he had, and he had every reason to lie about using it on the kids. Attacking Ford was atrocious behavior, but attacking the kids was simply and completely unforgivable. “I don’t suppose you saw enough to confirm the truth of the matter?” he asked Bill._

_“You really think I wouldn’t have said anything to you earlier if I’d noticed Four-Eyes using his memory ray on you?” Bill asked._

_“No, of course not,” Stanford said immediately. The thought had never even occurred to him. It hadn’t occurred to him before, but now… Why hadn’t Bill noticed? Ford did understand that though very wise and powerful Bill wasn’t actually omniscient. His all-seeing eye was limited, presumably not by the amount of stimuli it could take in – hence the title all-seeing – but by how much his mind could process. There were things he saw but failed to register because he was too busy paying attention to other matters to notice them. Admittedly, that was perhaps a rather human-centric way of interpreting things, but it did fit the currently available data. The trouble was, if Bill was supposed to be a muse and Stanford was the one great mind in a century he’d chosen to inspire, shouldn’t at least some small part of him always be paying attention to Ford? Why hadn’t Bill noticed?_

_“Even if I didn’t see it, there is a way I could check whether or not Fidds attacked your kids,” Bill drawled, immediately snapping back Stanford’s full attention._

_“How?”_

_“When I look for them, there are definite traces of the memories Four-Eyes stole from you in your mind. If I went into the kids’ minds-“_

_“No!” Ford said, shocked and appalled that Bill would even suggest such a thing. “Don’t you dare-“_

_“Stanford!” Bill barked, and Ford shrank back almost instinctively. Bill had never taken that kind of angry, almost menacing tone with him. More than anything it reminded Ford of…_

_“Stanford,” Bill repeated, this time noticeably calmer. “I’m not the one who attacked you and your kids. You asked for my help, and I’m letting you know what the options are. I don’t have to do it if you really don’t want me to, but it would only take a quick peek to know. I thought you wanted to make sure your kids were safe.”_

_“I do,” Ford insisted, “but there are a lot of sides to that.” Still, perhaps he had been a bit hasty in his censure of Bill. Bill hadn’t been suggesting he try to manipulate Dipper and Mabel’s minds in any way like the memory gun did; he was only saying he might take a look. That wasn’t anything inherently harmful. Ford had even considered doing himself before as a way to find out more about his children’s past experiences without having to force them to talk about it. He’d gone as far as to find a spell that would allow him to go into their minds, but in the end he hadn’t been able to follow through with it. It wasn’t anything inherently harmful, except in that it would be a huge violation of boundaries to do it without consent. Something that Dipper and Mabel weren’t capable of giving, because they were too young to fully understand what they would be consenting to.  “I’m not comfortable with anyone going into their minds no matter what the reason.” They’d had more than enough boundaries violated in their lives._

_“Okay. If you don’t want me confirming whether or not Four-Eyes attacked your kids, then I won’t. But in that case seems to me you have to assume he did. For your children’s sake.”_

_Stanford sighed. “You’re right,” he said. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t already been assuming that before, but it felt different now. Before he had snapped to the conclusion in an instant and had continued on with it based largely on rage-fueled inertia. Now he was making a rational, logical conclusion as to what to believe. It was far more final. It also meant he would need to start making serious decisions about what to do next. “I suppose the first thing is to take Fiddleford off the portal project; he may well decide to go back home on his own from there. Then-“_

_“Hold on a second there, Sixer. You sure you think it’s a good idea to take him off the project?” Bill asked._

_“Of course it is. The memory gun might be destroyed, but I can’t trust him anymore.”_

_“I’m not saying you should keep on being buddy-buddy with the guy. Obviously you can’t trust him, and if Stanley is sticking up for him... but I’m sure he’s got his reasons. Point is just because you don’t trust Fiddleford, doesn’t mean you can’t keep working with him. You think everyone always trust their co-workers?”_

_“Well, no,” Ford admitted. He would never bring anyone in that he didn’t trust, but that was primarily because he was keeping the nature of the project a secret until such time he was ready to unveil it to the world. Fiddleford already knew about the portal; Ford couldn’t un-tell him now. “I just wouldn’t feel comfortable working with him after what he did to my kids. I realize that means a significant delay in the work on the portal.” Before the incident today it had looked like they were going to be on track for the first test run by mid-June. Who knew how much longer that would take to get to without Fiddleford’s mechanical genius, but it was a sacrifice Ford was willing to make._

_Bill stared at him for a long time, so much that Ford began to fidget uncomfortably. Finally Bill said, “Fine. If that’s what you want. Clearly you don’t care what I think.”_

_“Of course I value your advice,” Stanford said, feeling as though the rug had been pulled out beneath him by Bill’s sudden reversal. “It’s just that in this particular instance, I-“_

_“Care more about a little discomfort than achieving your dream and providing for your family. I thought better of you than that, but I also thought you’d be done building the portal by now; you could have had it finished by the end of January if you had applied yourself. But maybe I’m expecting too much from you.”_

_“That’s not…” Stanford felt nauseated. Bill had never shied away from being honest with Stanford about his shortcomings, but this total dismissiveness, this questioning of Stanford’s abilities as a scientist, this pervading sense of having failed Bill was new, and it was like bile crawling its way up Stanford’s throat. “I’ll figure something out.”_

_“Hey, it’s your call. Think it over, and if you ever need to talk, remember I’m here for you.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blergh. Bill makes me feel gross. I'm so ready for him to go in-your-face evil you guys, you don't even know.


	32. Chapter Thirty-Two

“Here,” Ford said, handing Stan a big stack of papers covered in all sort of weird science-y stuff.

Stan accepted the papers automatically, then nearly dropped them because of the surprising weight. Jeez, how was paper that heavy? “What’s this for?” he asked.

“For you to give to Fiddleford. He is still technically my research assistant.”

“Really?” Stan said. “I kinda assumed firing him was implied with the whole ‘you never want to see him again’ thing.” Something that Ford had literally said at least three different times yesterday.

“Yes well, I gave the matter some consideration last night, and I do still need help if I want to get the portal constructed in anything like a reasonable time frame. If you’re going to insist on me allowing Fiddleford to stay in the house, I might as well make use of that. Though I want to make it clear that my conditions still stand. I don’t want him going anywhere near the kids, and I’d like to avoid any direct interactions with him as well. Hence me asking you to deliver those to him.”

Stan was able to figure from all that that Ford really did want to fire Fidds, regardless of whether he was in the house or not, but was forcing himself to be practical. Stan was perfectly familiar with that kind of ruthlessly practical decision-making, where you were backed into a corner and did whatever you had to do to get out again. Trouble was, Stan couldn’t see what corner Ford had backed himself into and didn’t know how to help. Only thing he could do was what Ford asked. “Okay, I’ll take this stuff right up then.”

Ford smiled tightly. “Thank you, Stan.”

 

* * *

 

Stan waited until he was sure Ford was well on his way back down the attic stairs before calling, “Fidds! Come out here and help me with this.” Fidds opened Stan’s bedroom door a crack and peeked out, looking around for a second before he emerged and scurried over to help Stan. Stan had to suppress the urge to roll his eyes in response – what, did Fidds think Stan was going to try to trick him into breaking the rules or something? Neither of them wanted to upset Ford any more than he already was.

“You got me a cot?” Fidds asked, as he helped Stan pick the thing up and carry it into the bedroom.

“I didn’t go out and buy it special or anything; we had it down in the storage room. Before the kids came, Ford apparently kept this thing set up in the basement to crash on when he didn’t feel like going all the way upstairs to go to bed. I’m sorry I didn’t think to grab it for you yesterday.” Though even if Stan had thought of it yesterday, chances were pretty slim that Ford would have been willing to help him carry the cot up to the main room of the attic.

“That’s fine. I don’t think any of us were thinking all that clearly yesterday,” Fidds said. Stan made an amused sound of agreement.

By that point they’d reached the middle of Stan’s room and Stan told Fidds to go ahead and set it down. “We can unfold it and make it up here where the ceiling slope won’t force us to bend in half, and then push it up over near the wall over there,” he said. He pulled the pillow and sheets perched on top of the cot down and started doing exactly that.

Fidds didn’t follow suit, instead standing there, wringing his hands. Stan raised his eyebrows at him. “Look Stan, it’s not that I don’t appreciate everything you’re doing here for me, but I’m not sure if I can do this.”

“Do what, sleep on the cot?” Stan asked. “It’s gotta be more comfortable than the floor was. But I guess if it really makes that big a difference for you, you can have the bed and I’ll sleep on the cot; it’s better than a lot of the other places I’ve slept. Heck, the floor is still better than a lot of the other places I’ve slept, at least I know it’s clean. Clean-ish.”

“No the cot’s fine. I meant, well I’ve just been thinking a lot today, and I still don’t know I can handle all this without the memory gun.”

Stan scoffed, then went back to making up the bed. “Sure you can. That’s just the addiction talking.”

“Addiction? I’m not _addicted_ to the memory gun,” Fidds protested.

“Yeah, yeah, and I didn’t used to be an alcoholic.”

“ _What_?”  He looked completely flabbergasted. Stan played back what he’d just said in his head, then winced. “You’re an alcoholic?” Fidds said.

“I _was_ an alcoholic, past tense; I’m fine now. Can we just pretend I didn’t say that?” Stan asked. Fidds kept right on looking at him that same way. Stan sighed. “Guess that’s a no. Look, I’ll tell you about it, just don’t tell Ford, okay? Like I said, I’m fine now. I haven’t even had anything to drink since I got here ‘cause of that rule of his, but I don’t want him to know _because_ he has that stupid rule. I don’t want him to freak out and decide I’m no good to be around the kids or anything.”

“He wouldn’t do that,” Fidds said. Which was pretty funny coming from him after what had happened yesterday. Even still…

“The crazy thing is, I actually think you’re right about that. I just don’t want to risk it.”

“Your secret’s safe with me,” Fidds assured him.

“Thanks,” Stan said. He took a deep breath, then began. “It started… well, I don’t really know when it started. I had alcohol a few times back when I was still in high school, but not that many. Ford’s not much for breaking the rules most of the time, and I could only convince him we were getting drunk for science so many times before that stopped working. I didn’t start drinking with any regularity until after I got kicked out of New Jersey. I was eighteen, nineteen? Probably eighteen. I picked up my first alias then and since I was getting a fake ID anyway might as well make myself twenty-one, right? But I don’t think it really started then. I was drinking ‘cause it was fun and I liked it, not because I thought I needed it. I still had a lotta energy back then, still thought I was going to make it big any day now. But I didn’t. I never did. By the time I actually turned twenty-one I probably hadn’t been totally sober in months. And ya know the funny thing about rock bottom is, you never really hit it. Every time you think you do, there’s always new lows to sink to.”

“What happened?” Fidds asked.

“I went to jail,” Stan said bluntly. “That’s a different story that I won’t be telling you. Point is, in jail there ain’t a lot of booze, so I didn’t have a lot of choice about getting sober. Let me tell you, I’ve been through a lot of shit in my life, a lot of shit, but altogether that first month was the worst experience of my life. I’d rather get shot again than go through that a second time. And no I’m not telling you that story either. Finally after that first month or so I started evening out back to normal.”

“And that’s when you realized how much better you felt being sober?” Fidds guessed.

“Fuck no, I felt like shit. I was still in jail, had no money, no family, and no plans for fixing any of that. What being sober did is made me realize I had felt like shit during that two years or whatever I had been drunk too. And if I was going to feel like shit either way, no point in wasting money on booze.

“I still drank after that – after I got outta jail anyway – but only when there was an opportunity to do it for free. Still, it wasn’t about trying to not feel like shit any more, it was about not turning down free booze. It was different. Probably about a year or so later I went to Vegas; now there’s a place where you can get yourself some free booze. I was there for a few months and plastered for a lot of it, but I only blacked out once. Which is a great story and I will tell it you some time. Things ended up going to shit like they always do, and I was this close to plopping myself down at a casino and gambling and drinking until I couldn’t feel anything for at least a little while. But then… crap. You swear you’re not going to tell Ford any of this?”

“Why? What did you do?” Fidds asked, sounding alarmed.

“No it’s not like that, I just…” Stan scrubbed his face. “I was about to fall off the wagon in a big way, but then I thought about Ford. I knew if I started drinking I wasn’t gonna stop and then how was I ever going to get Ford back? It wasn’t worth it. So I got in my car and drove away. I’ve been fine since then.”

Fidds looked pretty deep in thought so Stan gave him a few minutes before giving him a nudge on his shoulder to get his attention back. “Sorry,” Fidds said. “Assuming he ever talks to me again, I was trying to figure out a way to tell Ford that part of the story without giving away the rest of it.”

“What? No, you can’t tell him that part either,” Stan said.

“There’s nothing wrong with letting your brother know how much you care about him,” Fidds said.

“That’s not the problem; he already knows that anyway. The problem is it would make him feel guilty, knowing I was getting all mushy about him back when he wasn’t hardly thinking about me at all, and was only ever pissed off when he did.”

“Oh,” Fidds said. “Did you know you snore?” That was a weird change of subject, but Stan would take it.

“Yeah, sorry. Did I keep you up last night?” Stan asked.

Fidds gave a half-shrug. “I wasn’t sleeping too well anyway. My point was, when I thought about it I realized I already knew you snored before last night. You know Ford and I were roommates back college? Sometime in the first week or two I happened to wake up in the middle of the night. Ford was still up studying and he turned to me and said... what was it he said…? ‘You’re very quiet when you sleep. It’s disconcerting.’ Something like that. Well I thought that was a strange thing to say to a body, and I told him so. He never brought it up again, but sometimes I would still wake up to find him giving me a look like I was doing something wrong by not making more noise in my sleep. Like I ought to be snoring or something.”

Huh. Stan didn’t know how he felt about that. It would be stupid to say that it was the little things he had missed most about Ford because what Stan had missed most about Ford in those ten years was just Ford. But those little things stuck with you. There had been times when Stan had found himself tapping on his can before he opened it because Ford always used to do that to his cans of soda. “I guess it’s funny the things you remember.”

“Guess it is,” Fidds said. He leaned up against the side of the freshly-made cot and stared down at his hands. “You really think I was addicted to the memory gun?”

“You’re the one who keeps saying you need it. In my experience that means either that’s an addiction or medication. Or both.”

“What do you think I ought to do?”

Stan shrugged. “I told you how I dealt with my problem, but you gotta figure out what’s going to work for you. The one good thing about being stuck up here I guess is you’ll have plenty of time to think about it.”

 

* * *

 

Dipper crawled up in Stan’s lap, getting a raised eyebrow from Stan. Mabel was a big cuddler – in fact she was in Ford’s lap right now telling him all about her day at school – but sometime in the past few months Dipper had decided he was too big for cuddles and lap-sitting now. Not that that stopped him if he was upset enough. “What’s wrong, kid?”

Dipper thought that over for a minute before finally answering, “I don’t like yelling.”

There hadn’t been any actual yelling going on recently; even when he and Ford had been fighting over Fidds staying, they kept the volume down low enough to keep from disturbing the kids. That said, he couldn’t exactly say Dipper’s comment was coming out of nowhere.

Stan pat Dipper on top of his head and said, “Yeah. Me neither.”

 

* * *

 

Stan tossed the Cubic’s Cube at Fidds when he walked in the door, and Fidds fumbled it a little, but managed to catch it. “Ford brought that when he came upstairs this afternoon, said it was yours.” Of course Stan had already known that, so he took Ford’s pronouncement as a hint to take the thing up here to Fidds when he got the chance.

“Thanks,” Fidds said. He started twisting the thing up, not really scrambling it so much as aimlessly turning it over in his hands and rotating sides back and forth. “This is a good sign, right? That he wanted me to have this back. He had been trying to teach me to use it as an anxiety aid.”

Stan debated for a minute, then decided that hiding the truth wasn’t going to do anybody any good. “Honestly, I’m pretty sure he just didn’t want to have to look at it anymore.”

“Oh.” And now Stan felt like shit, and this wasn’t even his fault. Not that he really blamed Ford either. He should probably blame Fidds himself, but it was just… Stan got it, ya know? Maybe they could blame the shapeshifter. At least that way the guy getting the blame he didn’t deserve was an asshole anyway.

“Do you think Ford’s ever going to be able to forgive me?” Fidds asked.

Stan sighed. “I don’t know. At this point he still thinks you used the memory gun on Dipper and maybe Mabel too; that’s kind of a sticking point for him.”

“It was sticking point for me too, so can’t say as I blame him,” Fidds said.

“I’ve been thinking about blaming the shapeshifter for this whole thing.”

One side of Fidds’ mouth quirked up. “Now wouldn’t that be nice.”

 

* * *

 

Stan came out of his room, only to just barely grab Mabel before she darted in past him. “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked as he firmly closed the door.

“I wanna go see Uncle Fiddleford ‘cuz I haven’t seen him in days and days and weeks and weeks,” she said.

“Okay first off, it ain’t been weeks. It hasn’t even been a week; only like three days. Second, since when do you call Fidds ‘ _Uncle_ Fiddleford’?”

“Since now. ‘Cuz Ria calls you Uncle Stan ‘cuz she loves you, and I love Uncle Fiddleford, and I wanna see him right now,” Mabel said glaring up at him stubbornly. Stan did not get paid enough for this.

Actually, he wasn’t getting paid for this at all. Especially because he was pretty sure Ford’s whole quid pro quo you watch the kids and I’ll pay for whatever you need went as far as covering up for Fidds’ mistakes for him. “Wait one second,” he told Mabel. Stan turned back around and opened the door just wide enough for him to see Fidds through the gap. “You owe me for this.”

Fidds, who was apparently too well-mannered to eavesdrop like a normal person, looked confused, but agreed. “Yes, I know that.”

“Seriously, Fidds. One of these days I’m going to come to you with a body and a shovel, and I want no questions.” Fidds opened his mouth, but Stan cut him off before he could get a word out. “No questions.” He closed the door again, only to be greeted by Mabel still looking mulish. He was _not_ getting paid enough for this.

Stan sighed, then decided to just scoop Mabel up under his arm. There, problem solved. “Uncle Stan! Put me down!” Mabel screamed, kicking and squirming for all she was worth. Stan paid attention for just long enough to confirm it wasn’t genuinely upset about to start crying and panicking type of screaming, then tuned her out.

“Dipper, I know you’re here somewhere. Come on out,” he said.

After a second, Dipper’s head slowly peeked out from around the corner to the window seat. He looked at Mabel, looked at Stan, and said, “I’ll be good.” Smart kid.

“Okay, let’s take this party downstairs.” Stan looked at Mabel, who was still trying to get away for all she was worth. “Sweetie, I can’t carry you down the stairs with you kicking and screaming like that.” Mabel obligingly began moving her arms and legs in slow motion and dropped her screams to a whisper.

As the three of them trooped downstairs Dipper asked, “Uncle Stan, what did you mean about the thing you said with the body and the shovel.”

Right. There was no way the kids hadn’t overheard that, was there? “Let’s just call it a grown-up expression and not tell your dad you heard me say that.”

“Like how we don’t tell him when you accidentally say a grown-up word even though you’re not supposed to?” Dipper said.

Huh. Stan didn’t remember ever having made that a rule, but he could definitely run with it. “Yep, just like that.”

When they reached the living room, Stan threw Mabel onto the couch getting a bunch of giggles out of her. Then he had to pick Dipper up and throw him on the couch too before he could sit down himself. As soon as he had Mabel clambered into his lap and looked up at him with big doe eyes. “How come we can’t see Uncle Fiddleford anymore?”

Crap. So much for them forgetting all about that in the time it took to get downstairs. “Because your dad doesn’t want you to,” Stan said.

“Yeah, but how come?” she insisted.

So much for plan B then. “Ford already told you, didn’t he? Fidds did something wrong, and Ford’s worried that he might do something like again. He wants you both to stay away unless he can be sure that won’t happen.”

“But Uncle Staaan, that doesn’t make sense,” Mabel whined. “’Cuz Uncle Fiddleford couldn’t do a bad thing ‘cuz he’s good.”

“Sometimes good people do bad things.” Ain’t that the truth.

Dipper, who’d been sitting next to them listening quietly, piped in. “Like Mama?”

“Don’t say that,” Mabel snapped. “Mama was a good mama. She was.”

“Hey, no one’s saying she wasn’t.” Stan was definitely thinking it, but no way was he getting into that right now or ever. Ford could tackle that one. “We’re just saying that even if she was the best ma in the world, she still might have done some things that weren’t that great. Good people can make mistakes and bad things can happen.” And sometimes they made mistakes over and over again. For ten years straight. Though jury was probably still out on whether or not Stan was a good person.

“I don’t like that,” Mabel said. “’Cuz we live with Daddy now, and everything is supposed to be good, and everyone is supposed to be good all the time forever, and if anybody bad comes Daddy can use his brains and you can punch them until it makes them go away.”

“You know I’m always up for punching anything that you need me to punch. I just don’t think that’s going to solve the problem this time,” Stan told her.

Mabel humphed and crossed her arms. Then after a second she gave him a sly sort of side-eye look. “Maybe ice cream will fix it? Chocolate ice cream with lots of whipped cream and chocolate sauce and sprinkles?”

“Yeah, ice cream will fix it,” Dipper agreed.

Stan laughed. “Sure, let’s give it a shot.”

 

* * *

 

“This is starting to make me feel like I’m back in junior high, passing notes back and forth,” Stan said jokingly as he handed a pile of papers covered in calculations over to Ford.

“I’m sorry that my discomfort with having the man who attacked me and my children in my house is inconvenient for you,” Ford snapped.

“That’s not what I – never mind, sorry,” Stan said. He thought about telling Ford he should try to get some decent sleep tonight, but decided that was a point that might be better to bring up later.

 

* * *

 

“I got them from Fidds’ apartment,” Stan explained as Ford looked over the schematics for the destroyed memory gun. “I get that you don’t want him to have any equipment so he can’t make another one, but I figured if you knew what parts he needed to make the gun, you could let him work on the stuff that can’t be used for it.” Fidds was starting to go stir-crazy trapped up in Stan’s room, and Stan hoped having something to tinker with might help. Plus if Fidds could do some practical work, not just calculations and stuff, then maybe Ford would let himself slow back down a bit.

“I’ll need some more time to review these plans to understand them better, but there are potentially some things I could give him to work on with this in mind. It was a good idea; thank you Stan.”

 

* * *

 

“I just wish you weren’t on his side,” Ford said.

So. That came out of nowhere. One second Ford had been eating the lunch Stan had dragged him out of the basement to have as fast as he could, and the next he was sitting there glaring at Stan all accusatory. “On who’s side?” Stan asked.

“Fiddleford’s,” Ford said, like it should have been obvious. And okay, fair, maybe it should have been. Except…

“I’m not on his side.”

“You’ve continued to harbor him up in your room, despite me clearly telling you I didn’t want him in my house. How is that not being on his side?” demanded Ford.

“Just because I’m helping him doesn’t mean I think he was right. He fucked up big time, and you got every right to be pissed off at him. If you never forgive him, I get it; I won’t complain. I’m keeping him in my room because I don’t like anyone telling me who I can and can’t spend my time helping, but I haven’t once said anything about the rules you made or tried to get you to talk to him, have I? If you never want to see him again, fine, but he’s still my friend, and I don’t like the idea of kicking someone to the curb because they made a stupid mistake.”

Ford’s expression turned understanding, though the frustration was still there. “I know what Pa did kicking you out like that was a terrible experience for you, but you have to admit this is hardly the same situation.”

“Course it’s not the same,” Stan said. “For one thing, me breaking your science fair gizmo was an accident. What Fidds did was a mistake, but it wasn’t an accident. But I still get where he’s coming from too. He was wrong, but I get it. You’d be surprised what a person is capable of when they don’t have any other choice.”

“He had other choices,” Ford snapped.

“You know that, and I know that, but I don’t think Fidds realized that until it was too late.” Stan sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Look Ford, is this going to be an ultimatum here? Either I kick Fidds out or you’ll kick both of us out?”

“What? No, of course not,” Ford said.

“You sure about that?” Stan said. He sure didn’t sound all that sure. “Just be honest with me, because if that’s what this is I’ll go upstairs and kick Fidds out right now.”

“I…” Huh. Ya know, when Ford blinked all surprised like that he kind of looked like an owl. “But you said you would leave if I didn’t let Fiddleford stay.”

When…? Oh. Stan groaned. “I meant I would leave for that night. It was late, and I was going to take Fidds back to his apartment, stay with him that night, and stay long enough the next morning to make sure he called someone – Emma-May or some other friend or whoever – to get some help. I was going to be back in time to take the kids to school the next day.” Jeez, no wonder Ford had backed down so quickly after Stan had said that.

“You’re not going to leave,” Ford said, and Stan wasn’t sure if that was supposed to be a statement or a question. He answered it anyway.

“No, I’m not going to leave. I just… I’m a selfish bastard, alright? Fidds is a friend, and I want to help him through the shit he’s dealing with right now. But what he needs is someone to be around to support him when he starts freaking out and to keep an eye on him so he doesn’t try to do anything stupid again, and I ain’t willing to give up any time with you and the kids to do that. So I’m selfish enough to keep him here even though I know you don’t want him to be. But I’m also selfish enough that I’d throw him over in a second if that’s what it took to stay here.”

“I thought you said you didn’t like the idea of kicking someone out for making a mistake.”

“Yeah, on principle, but since when do I give a fuck about principles?” Stan said. “I went ten years without a family, and if someone wants to take that away from me again, they’ll have to pry it from my cold dead fingers.”

“Okay,” Ford said. “Okay. That’s good.”

That was debatable, but as long as Ford approved it was good enough for Stan. “So am I kicking Fidds out or what?”

Ford was quiet for a long minute. “Helping him is important to you?”

“Not as important as you and the kids,” Stan shot back immediately.

“Yes, but still important,” Ford said. Stan didn’t argue. “I don’t like it, and I don’t think he deserve help, but as long as he follows the rules and keeps away from the kids, he can stay,” Ford said finally.

 

* * *

 

“Stan?”

Stan paused on his way up to his room for bed, surprised to see Ford in his own bedroom so early. After a moment he realized Ford’s hair was wet, so his brother had probably just taken a break from work to take a shower before it got too late. “Yeah?” Stan said.

“I’ve been thinking about our conversation earlier, and I still think Fiddleford doesn’t deserve help after what he did, and you’re wrong for keeping him here to help him,” said Ford.

“Gee thanks,” Stan said. “So glad you stopped me to tell me that.”

“You didn’t let me finish,” Ford objected. “I was going to say that I don’t approve of that actions you’re taking, but I do appreciate that you’re the kind of person that would take them. You’re not as selfish as you think you are.”

Stan scoffed. That was easy for Ford to say, he hadn’t been there for those ten years Stan had spent on the road; Stan knew who he was. “Yeah I am, I’m just better at covering it up than you think I am.” Ford smiled at him, an indulgently amused sort of look that said he knew Stan was wrong, but was willing to humor him. Stan rolled his eyes and started back to his room. “Night Ford.”

“Good night Stan. I love you.”

It always caught Stan a little off guard when Ford said stuff like that during the causal moments. Men weren’t supposed to say things like that, except maybe to their girls. Course, Ford and even Stan told the kids they loved them and that mushy stuff a lot – that they weren’t supposed to say things like that was less important than the kids needing to hear it. And it was true, Stan did love the kids and his brother, and he knew that they loved him too, and there wasn’t any real reason to hide any of that. So it always caught Stan off guard when Ford said stuff like that, but only for a moment. “Love you too, nerd.”


	33. Chapter Thirty-Three

Ford rubbed his forehead, trying to forestall the headache he could feel beginning to build behind his left eye. It didn’t work because when did that sort of thing ever work? Caffeine was an anti-inflammatory and supposed to be helpful for preventing and treating headaches. He reached for his coffee, only to find it already gone. He glared at the empty mug for a minute, but ultimately decided against going upstairs for a refill. Stan was liable to give him a look and possibly make a few pointed comments if he saw Ford on his fourth cup of coffee before ten in the morning. Besides, Dipper was down in the lab right now, and Ford could hardly leave him here unsupervised.

Maybe some actual painkiller. Luckily there was a bottle of ibuprofen downstairs. Ford got up and walked over to the little half-bath tucked off the control room and got the painkillers out of the first aid kit. He shook two pills out of the bottle, frowned, then shook out a third. His sleep-deprivation headaches – not that he was deprived of sleep right now. He was just maybe a little short-changed, what with scrambling to make sure Fiddleford’s betrayal didn’t cause him to fall any further behind on the portal project than the six months they already were according to Bill. The point being these particular types of headaches tended to get worse over the course of the day rather than better, so may as well be prepared for that. He rinsed the pills down with some coffee-flavored water, then filled the mug up once again, after rinsing it out thoroughly this time. Staying hydrated could only help.

On his way back to his desk, Ford took a detour to stop by Dipper, who was sitting at his little table in the corner scribbling away diligently in his journal. Ford took a look at what he was working on and smiled. “That’s the portal isn’t it?”

Dipper nodded. “I’m drawing it, then I’m going to label all the different parts. Then I’ll draw another picture after it’s all done so we can see how it changed.”

“Well it looks very good so far. You’ve got quite a bit of artistic talent.” Granted his pictures did tend to be a little lacking in details and he hadn’t seemed to have learned how to use shading yet, but his lines were clean and well-defined, and the objects always easily identifiable. “You’ll have to tell me more about this drawing later, after you’ve finished it.”

“Okay,” Dipper said. He grinned at Ford, then returned to work. Ford gave Dipper one last shoulder squeeze, then went to do the same himself.

Or at least he tried to do the same himself, but progress continued to be frustratingly slow. While he still had Fiddleford’s help in a fashion, passing papers back and forth was hardly the same thing as what they’d been doing before. There were no opportunities for them to discuss things and bounce ideas off each other, no possibility of Fiddleford explaining his thought processes to Ford or the purpose of some of his engineering choices. Ford could usually sort it out eventually, but it would have been so much easier if he didn’t have to do that. It would have been easier if Fiddleford hadn’t betrayed his trust so thoroughly that Ford didn’t know what he was capable of anymore, or what he might have done while he still had the memory gun. He honestly was trying not to think about it too hard – the possibilities were endless and endlessly horrifying.

Eventually the painkillers kicked in enough that his headache receded to a minor background annoyance, and Ford was able to get into the rhythm of work. In fact he was so focused he didn’t even truly register the sound of Dipper getting up. He didn’t become aware that he’d heard it and heard Dipper moving about until after the next sound: two consecutive clicks. It was a soft sound, but distinctive. It was the sound of a gate latch closing. The basic sort of gate latch that was found on fences people used around their yards or patios. The same sort of gate latch on the waist-high metal fence Ford and Fiddleford had picked up from the local hardware store to serve as the safety rail in front of the portal. For a second, Ford could swear he felt his heart stop.

He shot up, heedless of the way his chair rocked and nearly clattered to the floor behind him. He crossed from his desk to the doorway into the main lab in two long strides. There, beyond the safety rail, with the partially complete portal towering above him like a monster out of a nightmare, was Dipper.

“Dipper, get out of there this instant!” Ford shouted, his words having to force their way past the fear clawing its way up his throat. He crossed the room impossibly quickly, yet every single nanosecond while Dipper was still in danger seemed to stretch out for an eternity. What if some loose piece of the portal broke off and fell on top of him? What if Dipper placed his hand down on some exposed wire and electrocuted himself? What if one of the containment units breached, and Dipper were exposed to radioactive material? What if the portal somehow activated itself and pulled Dipper in to the weirdness dimension beyond?

Ford reached the gate at the same time Dipper did. He yanked the thing open and grabbed Dipper by the arm, dragging him back to the control room. Some distant part of his mind was aware he was moving too fast, that Dipper was tripping over his own feet trying to keep up, but that paled in comparison to getting Dipper back to safety. “What were you thinking? You know you’re not allowed to wander around the lab unsupervised, and you certainly aren’t allowed past the safety rail. You could have gotten yourself killed! This kind of reckless, disobedient behavior is not acceptable.”

“I needed to see the portal for my drawing,” Dipper said.

“For your drawing?” Ford didn’t know whether to laugh or to scream. “That is not a good excuse. You…” Ford couldn’t do this right now. Dipper was back in the control room and safe, but every nerve in Ford’s body was still screaming in panic and anger, and Ford could not do this right now. He picked Dipper up and placed him roughly back in the chair that he never should have gotten out of in the first place. “You stay right there and think about what you did,” Ford commanded before exiting back into the lab.

As soon as he was beyond the doorway and out of sight, he leaned against a wall and ran through some of his breathing exercises. In through the nose, 2, 3, 4. Hold 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7. Out through the mouth, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8. In. Hold. Out. After six repetitions he was feeling considerably calmer than before, but still too on edge to feel comfortable going back in to talk with Dipper yet. Besides, Dipper deserved at least ten minutes time out for what he’d done. Well, maybe five minutes – it was only his first offense. But certainly longer than minute or two it had been.

Ford walked over to the portal, letting himself past the safety rail to inspect the area beyond. He reassured himself that there were no parts loose, no wires exposed, no problems with the containment units, and very certainly no way that the portal could be turned on at this point even if someone were actively trying to do so. He turned to the gate then, confirming the latch had a spot where a lock could be placed. He racked his brains trying to remember if he had a padlock somewhere in the house before deciding to just ask Stan to pick one up after he dropped the children off at school later this morning. It was something he should have done a long time ago. If he had, this would have never happened. Of course, if he had stuck to his original plan of just placing a line on the floor to mark the danger zone, who knows how long or how frequently Dipper might have wandered about past it without Ford ever being aware. Who knows what could have happened to Dipper or Mabel in that case, if it weren’t for-

Once again his train of thought was interrupted by a soft but distinctive sound. The sound of sobbing.

Shit.

 

* * *

 

“You stay right there and think about what you did,” Daddy said, and then he left. Daddy _yelled_ at Dipper and then he _left_.

Dipper didn’t mean to do a bad thing. Daddy had said his drawing was good and Dipper wanted to make it really extra good so he had to go look at the portal really close. He knew it was dangerous behind the fence, but Dipper had been being careful and he wasn’t going to touch it, just look. But then Daddy got had mad and yelled and dragged him around and he left Dipper all alone. And Dipper wanted Daddy, but Daddy left and he wanted Mabel, but he couldn’t even go get her because Daddy said to stay, and Dipper couldn’t do any more bad things. If he did bad things then maybe Daddy would decide not to talk to him any more ever again like how he didn’t talk to Fiddleford anymore because he did a bad thing.

Dipper’s heart was beating and his breathing was going too fast, liked he’d just run for a long, long time, and his tummy felt bad and twisty. He tried to count his fingers, but didn’t work because he only had five fingers, not six like Daddy. And his fingers didn’t feel like Uncle Stan’s or Mabel’s either. It didn’t feel like anybody’s fingers but his because he was all alone. He stopped counting his fingers and tried hugging himself instead, but it didn’t help neither, and it didn’t make him stop shaking.

He was all alone. Daddy left and he wasn’t ever going to come back. Mabel wasn’t going to come either, and nobody was ever going to come, and he was going to be all alone forever. The basement was all dark, and everything was all grey and fuzzy and weird, and he didn’t like it, and it was scary. He curled up tighter. It was just him, and nobody and nothing else forever and ever.

Then there was something big standing right in front of him. He pulled away and closed his eyes; there was nothing but him, and he was all alone.

“Dipper.” That was his name; he was Dipper. That was the name that only good people used to call him. “Dipper? Dipper, sweetheart, it’s just me. Are you hearing me? Can you open your eyes for me?” He opened his eyes, and suddenly he saw. It wasn’t a something crouched in front of him; it was Daddy.

“Daddy!” Dipper said. He jumped down from his chair and threw his arms around Daddy’s neck, hugging him as tight as he could. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“Shhh, shhh, it’s okay,” Daddy said. He picked Dipper and sat down on the chair, with Dipper in his lap. Dipper stopped saying he was sorry because Daddy shh’d him even though he was still sorry. He was sorry forever. He tried to stop breathing all weird and loud, but he couldn’t. Daddy shh’d him, he had to stop, he couldn’t be bad anymore. “It’s okay,” Daddy said, rubbing on Dipper’s back. “Let it out.”

Dipper cried. He cried and cried and cried and cried even when he wasn’t scared or sad no more. The whole time he was crying Daddy held him and rocked him and hummed too so Dipper knew he wasn’t alone. That felt so safe and good it made Dipper cry even more.

After a long time he cried so much he didn’t have any more tears left. “Are you feeling a little better now?” Daddy asked.

Dipper nodded. “I’m sorry,” he said because maybe now that Dipper was better Daddy would be mad at him for being bad all over again.

“I know. I’m sorry too,” Daddy said.

That made Dipper all confused. “But I did a bad thing,” he said. Why would Daddy be sorry when Dipper was the one who did something bad?

“Yes, and you did deserve to be punished for that. But I shouldn’t have yelled at you no matter how badly you misbehaved. I was just so scared.”

“Nuh-uh, because you aren’t scared of anything. You fight monsters all the time.” Dipper knew because he and Daddy read Daddy’s journals together a lot and there were all kinds of monsters in them.

“I prefer to think of it as studying anomalies, but I suppose I am better at facing down monsters than the average person. That doesn’t mean that nothing can scare me.” Daddy turned Dipper’s shoulders a little so he could look at him in the eye. “I made the rules for how to behave in the lab for a reason. It can be very dangerous down here, especially when you cross past the safety rail. You could have gotten yourself seriously hurt. You could have died. The thought of something like that happening to you or your sister scares me more than anything in the world.”

Daddy wasn’t being loud, but the way he said it sounded really big and important. And he said Dipper might of died, but he was just a little kid, and little kids don’t die. Except Daddy said he could, and Daddy knew everything. “I don’t like that,” Dipper said, and he hid his face against Daddy’s chest.

“I don’t like it either,” Daddy said. “From now on you’re going to listen to me when I say something is dangerous, right?” Dipper nodded. “Good. And if you want to know more about something I’m working on or want a closer look then ask me. I’ll find a safe way to make it happen if I can, okay?”

“Okay,” Dipper said, but he didn’t unhide his face. “Am I going to be punished for being bad now?”

“Dipper. Time out _was_ your punishment. You’ve learned your lesson so I’m certainly not going to punish you anymore.”

Oh. That was why Daddy left. He had only been leaving for a little while to punish Dipper for being bad. And then when being all alone already got too scary, Daddy came back and hugged Dipper until he felt better. Dipper looked up at Daddy so Daddy knew that he meant it and said, “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Daddy said. He looked over at his desk and Dipper held onto his shirt a little tighter. He knew it was morning time which meant it was time for Daddy to be working, but Dipper didn’t want Daddy to go back to work yet. Then Daddy looked at Dipper and said, “Why don’t we go upstairs and find your sister? I’m sure we have time for me to read you both a chapter or two out of your book before it’s time to go to school.”

“Yes please,” Dipper said really fast. Daddy was the best.

Daddy stood up, and he kept holding Dipper while he did it so after he was standing he was already carrying Dipper. Dipper was a big boy and he didn’t need to be carried no more, but he didn’t tell Daddy that this time. Daddy started to walk to the elevator, but then Dipper said, “My journal!” Daddy turned around and grabbed Dipper’s journal and handed it to Dipper. It was hard to hold while he was already holding on to Daddy, but Dipper put it under his arm and carried it like that. His journal was Dipper’s most favorite thing in the world because it looked just like Daddy’s journals and Daddy made it just for him.

When they got onto the elevator Dipper saw Daddy looking at the portal an making a face like he was thinking. Like maybe he was thinking again about Dipper being bad again. Dipper hugged Daddy tight. Daddy looked down at him and smiled and hugged him back. Dipper smiled too. Everything was okay.


	34. Chapter Thirty-Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With the release of the new Gravity Falls graphic novel _Lost Legends_ we now officially have canon(-ish) names for Fiddleford's wife and for Ma Pines, Emma-May and Caryn, respectively. (For those of you who have read _Lost Legends_ and are thinking you don't remember seeing that in there, that's because the names aren't actually in the book. That would be ridiculous. You first have to work out something on the order of six levels of codes and clues to eventually get to a web page that has those names.) As such, I've updated all past usage of their names, and will use the new names going forward. I just wanted to let you know in case anyone notices and wonders why they suddenly changed.
> 
> Also, because I know if I don't say anything some people will start to think otherwise and get excited, let me nip this in the bud: neither Emma-May nor Tate will ever be showing up in this story. Sorry if you wanted that, but there it is.

After breakfast, instead of going to the basement Ford headed back upstairs. Stan didn’t question it, for which Ford was grateful. He’d come to this decision after thinking it over extensively yesterday, and if he hadn’t given Bill the chance to talk him out of it last night, he didn’t want to give Stan the chance to talk him into it this morning. Of course, Stan probably just assumed that Ford was going up to his room to grab something he needed before he started work. He supposed that was half-true, after a fashion.

Ford gave two sharp raps on the door then let himself in. Fiddleford was sitting on the bed, intent on playing with his Cubic’s Cube. “Did you need something Stan… ford.” His tone and expression shifted abruptly when he looked up and saw who was in the doorway, and his Cubic’s Cube dropped heedlessly from his hands into his lap. “Stanford.”

“Fiddleford.” Ford crossed his arms. He stared at the man, searching in him for his best friend or for the man who had manipulated the mind of himself and his children. He needed to know which Fiddleford was, who he was truly dealing with, but at the moment he couldn’t see either. “I’m still mad at you.”

“That’s fair,” Fiddleford agreed readily.

It was strange. Ford felt like he was in a fight with Fiddleford and Stan ganged up against him, but when he’d confronted Stan the other night, Stan had defended Ford’s right to his feelings and actions, and now Fiddleford seemed as though he was doing the same. It made it difficult to know how to respond. “It is fair,” Ford finally settled on. “But… obviously you were able to give Stan some justification for your actions that he accepted, since you’re still here. I think it would also be fair to hear you out.”

Fiddleford sat up straighter, the motion causing the Cube to tumble across his lap. He carefully picked it up and set it on the table beside him. “I – yes, of course. What do you want to know?”

“How many times did you use the memory gun on me? And what did you erase?”

“Twice. That’s, just twice,” Fiddleford said, twisting his fingers together. “The first time I erased the past minute. I wasn’t really trying to make you forget anything, just get you a little confused so you’d believe me when I said we’d destroyed the gun. The second time I erased five minutes, to make you forget walking in on me with the gun out to erase my own memory. But that’s it.”

That did plausibly sync up with the facts Ford had, both in terms of the number of times Fiddleford had used the memory gun on him and what had been erased. The trouble was with a memory gun involved, who knew how many facts Ford didn’t have? Fiddleford could have used it on Ford a hundred other times to erase a hundred other things, and if he covered up his tracks better than he had on those two occasions then Ford would never be the wiser to it. There was no real way to know for certain, but this wasn’t the time for such speculation. Ford had said he would hear Fiddleford out and he would. Speculation could come afterwards if necessary.

“Why?” Ford asked. “That is, I assume you were trying to keep the memory gun’s continued existence a secret from me so I wouldn’t insist on having it destroyed, but how could you go that far? How could you do something like that?” For all that he was angry, and he was, his words didn’t come out as a demand. They came out plaintive. In spite of everything and the practical part of him that pointed out that what Fiddleford had done was inexcusable and that Fiddleford shouldn’t be trusted, the sentimental part of him, the trusting part, still wanted to believe there was an excuse. That Fiddleford had some justification for his actions that would make it okay. Stan had had one for his actions, when Ford had finally asked him about it ten years later; maybe it wasn’t an unreasonable hope.

“I wish I could tell you I had a good reason, but I can’t  say the reasons I had were good ones,” Fiddleford said. He scratched the back of his hand nervously. “After we encountered that first creature, the one we met when raided the alien ship the first time-“

“The gremloblin,” Ford supplied.

Fiddleford visibly flinched, then took in a deep breath to calm himself. “Yes, that. The visions he gave me terrified me more than anything. I don’t remember them anymore, but I do remember the way they were burned on the back on my eyelids. I remember the way I couldn’t sleep at night for the screams, my own or imagined ones in my head, I couldn’t say. I remember the way could barely function. Inventing the gun and using it on myself was the first thing to give me relief. Then you wanted to take it away from me. I panicked. I’m not proud of it, but there it is. I panicked and did something stupid. I regretted using the gun on you and swore I’d never do it again. I told you I wasn’t going to use it on anyone without their consent, and I meant that genuinely, even if I had messed up the once. I kept using the memory gun on myself to help me with my anxiety and it was working. Even after the thing with the shapeshifter happened and made everything worse, the memory gun was still helping. I convinced myself I needed it. Then you found out, and despite all my good intentions and all the promises I made, I convinced myself that five minutes wasn’t all that much.”

“They weren’t your five minutes to take,” Ford snapped.

“I know that,” Fiddleford said. “I know that. Like I said, I panicked and did something stupid. I’m not defending what I did, just explaining it.”

“And what about after? When I returned to awareness the memory gun was on the floor and Dipper was in the doorway.”

“As soon as I’d used it on you, I realized Dipper had been there the whole time,” said Fiddleford. “He might not have understood what had happened, but he’d seen enough that he was bound to say something that would make you realize I still had the memory gun. I knew the only way to stop that from happening would be to erase his memories too.” Every single muscle in Ford’s body tensed. “Then I realized what I was thinking about doing, and I dropped the gun.”

“You didn’t use it on Dipper?” Ford said.

“No.”

“You never used it on him, or on Mabel?”

“Never,” Fiddleford insisted. “I remember how strongly you reacted the one time I suggested it, and the thought of anyone doing something I was so against to Tate… I couldn’t. No matter how panicked I was, I couldn’t do that.” Fiddleford’s fingers had twisted themselves into knots as he spoke, and now his eyes bored into Ford, imploring him to understand. Ford could see them both now, the man who manipulated his mind and his best friend, and they had been one in the same all along. What remained was deciding what to do about it.

“Okay,” Ford said after a long minute. “Okay, I believe you.” Perhaps the sentimental part was the larger part of him after all.

Fiddleford’s whole body relaxed and he smiled at Ford. “Thank you. After what I did, thank you for trusting me.”

“I don’t trust you. You violated my mind, not once, but on two separate occasions. I don’t trust you right now, but I do still believe you.” And perhaps there was a place for Ford to stand somewhere between practicality and sentimentality.

“Ah,” Fiddleford said. He sighed. “I reckon I can’t argue with that. I haven’t been particularly trustworthy of late. But, and not to play devil’s advocate against myself here, but if you don’t trust me, then why would you believe me? There isn’t exactly any proof out there that what I’m saying is true.”

“I didn’t believe you before. I couldn’t. Stan told me that you had told him you hadn’t used the gun on the children, but there still existed the chance you were lying. There was a chance that you had played with my children’s minds, so I couldn’t believe you. You understand?”

“I do,” Fiddleford agreed. “I swear I would never hurt a hair on their heads if I could help it, but I understand not wanting to take that risk.”

“Exactly. It wasn’t even really about you in the end, it was about Dipper and Mabel. Then yesterday – Stan told you what happened with Dipper?”

“He told me he got into trouble down in the lab. He’s okay, isn’t he?” There was a genuine note of worry in Fiddleford’s voice, the same note that had been in Stan’s voice yesterday morning when Ford had come up from the basement carrying Dipper.

“He’s okay. While I was intent on reviewing some calculations yesterday, Dipper slipped past me to get a closer look at the portal. Not just closer, but actually beyond the safety rail. Luckily, I was able to get him out of there almost immediately, and he was more upset at getting yelled at for his misbehavior than anything. But the only reason I was able to get him out of there so fast, that I noticed he had gone into the danger zone at all, was I heard the gate clicking shut behind him.”

“I’m glad he’s alright then. We ought to get a lock to go on that gate. You, I mean. You ought to get a lock,” Fiddleford said.

“Already done,” said. Ford. “The thing of it is, we wouldn’t have a gate to put a lock on if you hadn’t insisted that a line on the floor to mark the danger zone wasn’t good enough. If you hadn’t insisted we needed a fence with a spring-loaded gate that shut automatically.”

“We do need that. Like I said before, a line might be good enough for me and you, but if those kids are going to be down in the lab, then they’re liable to get excited and curious enough at some point to forget the line is there. A fence is a little harder to forget about. Though I guess not hard enough. The lock ought to help at least.”

"That right there, that’s exactly my point. That’s the proof. The whole time you’ve been here you’ve been the one telling me I was underestimating how much trouble children can get into and pushing for more stringent safety measures. You did that to keep Dipper and Mabel safe, because you care about their well-being. So if you tell me that you couldn’t use the memory gun on them because you care about their well-being too much to hurt them like that, then I can believe it. And if I can believe my kids are safe, then I can believe the rest of it isn’t any worse than what you’ve told me. I still can’t trust you again, not yet, but I believe you, and I…” Ford paused to consider his next words carefully. He was finding that part of saying what he meant was making sure he really and truly meant all the things he said, ideally before he actually said them. “I forgive you. The rest we can work out as we go.”

“That’s more than fair. And if I haven’t already said it, I am sorry for everything I’ve done,” Fiddleford said. He stood up and crossed the room so he could offer his hand to Ford. “Friends?”

Ford looked at Fiddleford’s hand for a long moment taking it in his and shaking. “Friends,” he agreed, though he didn’t move to turn the handshake into a hug as he might have been inclined to do a week ago. Luckily, neither did Fiddleford. Ford was willing to go back to being friends, but getting all the way back to where they had been, if they ever could get back there, would take more time. Time and work.

After they had released their handclasp, both of them stood there, neither sure what to say. Ford cleared his throat. “I suppose the first thing is to figure out is how you can keep helping on the portal after you go back to Palo Alto. I assume you still want to keep helping with the project?”

“Yes, of course. But I, uh… you still can’t trust me enough to let me stay around here?” Fiddleford asked.

Ford blinked in surprise. “I assumed you would want to leave. From what you’ve said and what I’ve seen it’s the creatures here in Gravity Falls that exacerbated your anxiety problems to the point they got out of hand. To be honest, I’m not sure why you let Stan make you stay for as long as he did.”

“Stan didn’t make me do anything. That door wasn’t locked; I could have left any time I wanted to. I didn’t leave because you, Stanford Pines, hold a grudge like nobody else,” Fiddleford said.

“What? I do not.” Admittedly Ford wasn’t as “live and let live” as Fiddleford was, but just because Fiddleford was more forgiving than him that didn’t mean Ford was significantly outside the norm.

“Really? What about your chemistry lab partner from freshman year? He still dead to you?”

“Of course not,” Ford said through gritted teeth. Fiddleford just looked at him and waited. “I mean really, how hard is it to clean out glassware? He almost got me an A minus in that class. An A _minus_. He could have wrecked my whole grade point average!”

“I rest my case,” Fiddleford said. “I stayed because I knew if I left you’d write our friendship off for good, but I thought if I stayed here and was real unobtrusive to not make things any worse, then there was a chance you might reconsider.  I wasn’t ready to give up on that chance yet.”

“You were just going to wait up in this room indefinitely for me to forgive you?” Ford asked. That was a lot. Too much.

“Course not. If nothing else, I couldn’t very well still be holed up in Stan’s room when Emma-May and Tate came up to visit next week.” Right, Fiddleford had said something previously about his family visiting for Easter while Tate’s preschool was on spring break, Ford just hadn’t realized that was coming up so soon. But then, Ford could barely be bothered to keep track of the holidays he theoretically celebrated, he certainly wasn’t going to keep on top of other religions’ holidays too. “I was going to stay another week, then spend the week with Emma-May and Tate, and then, if you still hadn’t forgiven me, I was going to go back to Palo Alto with them until we all moved back up here this summer.”

“You’re still planning on _moving_ to Gravity Falls?” Ford said. He knew Fiddleford and his wife had been talking about that, but Ford would have assumed it was off the table at this point.

“Technically that ain’t been decided yet; that’s what this trip is for. Still, unless something pretty big comes up, I think we are leaning that way. I know whether or not I’m still going to work for you after the portal is finished might be up in the air right now, but our other reasons for moving haven’t changed. I’m sure Palo Alto is a nice enough place if you like that sort of thing, but it’s not the right fit for me and Emma-May. Gravity Falls is a nice small town with nice people. Granted, the folks here are a bit odd, but I figure that just means me and Emma-May will fit in easier. And you know with the Northwests in town, we get enough big business and entrepreneur type foot traffic I could maybe even give Fiddleford Computermajigs a go of it right here if it comes to that.”

“That’s all well a good, but there’s a lot more weirdness to this town than just the people. You said this all started because your encounters with the creatures here in Gravity Falls. What’s to stop something like this from happening again?”

“I wasn’t panicking because the creatures were weird; weirdness don’t bother me none. I was panicking because I had been attacked, which could happen back in Palo Alto just the same as here, if not in precisely the same way. As to how to stop it from happening again, mostly I was hoping not to get attacked anymore, but I have been working on other ways to deal with my anxiety to keep it from getting to a full panic.”

Ford paused, thinking back to how intently Fiddleford had been playing with his Cube when Ford had first walked in. “Were you meditating earlier?”

“It weren’t exactly meditating, not like you’ve talked about it,” Fiddleford said. “But I’m finding messing with the Cubic’s Cube while I’m thinking takes just enough focus that I can sort through problems without letting my emotions get the better of me. It was a good suggestion; sorry I wasn’t open to listening to it when you first made it.”

“That’s-” okay, but it wasn’t, was it? Because if Fiddleford had listened back when Ford had first tried to help him with his anxiety problems, then maybe they wouldn’t be in this mess at all. “Is there anything else that’s helping?”

“Yeah, uh, Stanley, actually,” Fiddleford said. “It’s funny because I like your brother, but Stan’s pretty… loud. And brash. You wouldn’t think he’d be any good at this kind of thing. And he ain’t exactly comforting in a traditional sense, but if I need to talk, he’ll listen. And he’s really good at telling when I’m getting too up in my own head and he’ll start telling stories. Stuff he’s done, or things the two of you got up to as kids, all kinds of different stuff, but he’s got a way of engaging you in the story, and distracting you from whatever else you’re thinking about. Even if I don’t believe half of them. He told this one about how the two of you went up against the Sibling Brothers tracking down the Jersey Devil because it stole something from your dad’s pawn shop.” Fiddleford’s eyes were twinkling with mirth, inviting Ford in on the joke.

Except… “That actually happened.” Though in the end it had turned out Stan had been the one who had taken Pa’s gold chain. Still, Ford had been willing to cover for Stan back then, and he’d keep covering for him now.

Fiddleford stared at him. “You and your brother actually found and caught the Jersey Devil as children?”

“Yes, we did. It’s just a shame we ended having to let it go, especially before having collected any proof of having caught it.” Think of how much earlier Ford’s career as a researcher as of the paranormal could have started! Ah, well.

“You know, I’m starting to think you’re a magnet for weird things just as much as this town is,” Fiddleford said. Huh. What an odd way of looking at it. “I reckon it’s a good thing then that weirdness don’t bothers me.”

“I suppose so,” Ford agreed. That seemed to draw the previous conversation of topic to a close, and suddenly Ford found himself standing in front of his (former?) best friend with no idea what to say. He could remember half a year ago when Fiddleford had first arrived when Ford had been practically full to bursting with things to say, so pleased to finally have someone to talk science with who was on Ford’s own level, and now… He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and coughed. “I, uh. You’ve probably already put as much together, but I’m lifting the restriction on you needing to stay in Stan’s room. You’re free to come and go again, and I’m sure you’ll want to head back to your apartment at some point today, but for now I would appreciate it if you’d come down to do some work on the portal with me.”

“Of course. Lead the way,” Fiddleford said.

As they walked across the attic and down the stairs, the silence between them wasn’t strained, but it wasn’t exactly comfortable either. On the other hand, the hairs on the back of Ford’s neck weren’t standing on end when he went down the stairs with Fiddleford behind him, like Ford had half-expected them to.

“Ford?” Fiddleford said as they reached the landing for the second floor. Ford paused and looked over his shoulder.

“Yes?”

“You’re right that I probably ought to swing by my apartment later today to check in on things, but… I think you said something back on that first day about the memory gun possibly falling into the wrong hands. I wasn’t listening then, but I hear you now, and I see that those wrong hands included my own. I understand that, I really do, but sometimes there are moments when.” Fiddleford cut off abruptly, his eyes skittering away from Ford to look of in the middle distance. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to keep staying here for a while. Being here helps me remember the mistakes I made, and why I can’t make them again.”

“Oh.” After their conversation just now, Ford had assumed that between Fiddleford admitting he’d been wrong to use the memory gun, him finding new ways to control his anxiety, and the gun itself having been destroyed, that that wouldn’t be a problem. He still didn’t trust Fiddleford fully yet, but he hadn’t expected… But it was good, wasn’t it, that Fiddleford was now acknowledging out loud that he was having those feelings and recognizing them as bad and something to be rid of. That was a step in the right direction, right? In any case, it did make sense to keep Fiddleford where Ford could keep an eye on him and intervene if it did look like it was becoming a problem again. “That’s fine by me.”

“Thank you,” Fiddleford said.

“You’re welcome,” Ford replied, then gestured for Fiddleford to precede him the rest of the way down the stairs.

Once they reached the ground floor, Ford had them detour to the kitchen before going to the basement. He thought they ought to let Stan know what was going on, so he wouldn’t find Fiddleford missing and worry.

“I’ll be there,” Stan was saying into the phone as the two of them walked in. “Ford will probably stay home with the kids, but I’ll be there… Sure thing. And if there’s anything else… Okay, bye.” He hung up.

“What was that about?” Ford asked.

Stan turned around, then visibly paused at the sight of Ford and Fiddleford standing there together. “Better question: what’s this all about?” he asked, pointing back and forth between the two of them.

“We talked,” Ford said simply. “I’ve decided to forgive Fiddleford. He was still hoping to keep staying here for a while, if that’s alright by you?”

“Course it is. Best news I’ve had all day.” Stan said, then grimaced. “Not that the competition’s been stiff.”

“Why, who was that on the phone?” Ford asked.

“Teo. Francisco got into a car accident; he was drunk and crashed into a tree.”

“It’s nine-thirty in the morning,” Ford objected.

“And what, that would surprise you?”

Ford frowned. “I suppose it wouldn’t.” He had only met Sr. Ramírez twice, and neither Teodocia nor Ria seemed keen on talking about him, but what little Ford had gleaned about the man wasn’t promising.

“It wasn’t this morning anyway; it happened last night.” Stan sighed. “Ria’s dad is dead.”


	35. Chapter Thirty-Five

Pa’s old suit was itchy.

Well, no it wasn’t. Not really. It wasn’t a high-end tux, but it was a good enough suit, not made out of cheap material or anything. It fit fine. Probably better than it would fit Ford; he’d bulked up some in the past ten years, but Ford was still a bit weedy-looking compared to Stan or Pa. Ford was the one Pa had given the suit to, though. A graduation gift that Pa figured Ford would end up wearing to his wedding. Instead Ford had leant it to Stan to wear to a funeral. Maybe that was why it felt itchy.

Or maybe it was the whole damn situation. Stan had seen his fair share of death, more than probably. He’d seen people he didn’t give two shits about kick the bucket, lost people that were about the closet thing he had to friends during his years on the road, and even danced on a few graves. Well, okay he’d danced on one grave because apparently that was “disrespectful to the deceased and their loved ones” and next thing he knew people were breaking out the pitchforks again. Wasn’t worth it. So yeah, he’d seen death, but not like this. He’d never even been to a funeral before. Mostly he didn’t stay around long enough after the bodies starting hitting the floor, but even when he did, even when the guys actually had funerals or memorial services or wakes or whatever, Stan had never bothered. Why should he, as a sign of respect? Guy was dead, it wasn’t like he gave a fuck about Stan’s respect anymore if he ever had.

All those funerals he hadn’t been to, he wondered if they’d been like this one. It would sure make him glad he’d skipped out on them if they had been. The room was heavy and solemn and full of people dutifully bowing their heads as the priest droned on and on about “the word of the Lord” and “the Kingdom of Heaven,” broken up with bits about what a great guy Francisco had been, loving husband and dutiful father and all that junk. Stan had to wonder if the priest was basing on that on what Francisco might have been like, if you caught him on a good day and squinted, or if the guy was just making it all up wholesale. Stan _really_ had to wonder what he was even doing here.

Out of nowhere, Ria bolted up and practically ran down the center aisle and out of the room. Oh right, that.

Stan stood up and caught Teo’s eye. As soon as she’d seen him, he jerked his head over toward the door. Ria was her daughter, but she had three other kids up there to look after and the guy had been her husband; she ought to stay here. Stan had no such obligations. After a moment Teo nodded and gave him a tight smile before turning back to the front. He sidled out of the pew and out the door after Ria. The whole time that had been going on, the priest kept talking, which Stan figured meant the guy was either really bad at his job, or really good at it.

He didn’t have to look very hard to find Ria. She was still in the front entry room of the church, stomping back and forth with her fist clenched tightly at her sides. There was a table next to the wall over near her, and Stan walked over there and half-leaned half-perched on it. He bumped up against the cross sitting on the table - one of those ones with the dead Jesus hanging on it, and Stan had always thought that was kind of gruesome for religious imagery - so he pushed it off to the side. Ria glared at him when he came out, but otherwise ignored him. She just kept pacing.

“So you done with the funeral?” Stan asked her after a couple a’ minutes.

“I’m not going back in there. You can’t make me,” Ria snarled.

“Works for me. Now I got an excuse not to go back either.”

“He’s _lying_. Papí wasn’t like that. Father Cary keeps saying all those things, and they aren’t true. Papí wasn’t nice and loving and that stuff. He was _mean_. He always yelled at me all the time and never listened and he yelled at me for crying and he told me that if I kept being a troublemaker then when I grew up I was going to go to _jail_. And he was always fighting with Mamí and he said mean things to Miguel and Yolanda and Luisa and Carlos left because of him. He said they wanted their own place for their family, but I heard Teresa tell him that she wasn’t going to raise her baby in the same house as Papí. He was mean and drunk all the time and a bad person!”

“You know they can probably hear you in there,” Stan said, nodding at the doors to main area. Hell, they could probably hear her halfway across the state.

“ _I don’t care_!” Ria screamed. “Papí was mean and a bad person and I _hated him_!” She stomped her foot in time with her final words. Her face was flush with anger, and she glared at him ready for a fight, daring him to argue with her.

Stan looked mildly back. “Kid, I haven’t disagreed with a thing you’ve said.”

Ria gave a wordless scream of fury and charged, slamming her fist into him. Stan let her. He’d been beaten up by way stronger people than Little Miss Ria for way worse reasons before. If punching him repeatedly was going to be what it took, then that’s what it took.

The second hit was noticeably lighter than the first, and so was the third. After the fourth punch her hand stayed against him, sliding down from his chest to rest against his stomach. The fifth punch wasn’t a punch at all, just her other hand grabbing hold of his jacket. She leaned in and pressed her face against him just in time for her scream to turn into a huge body-shaking sob. Yeah, that was what Stan figured. Nothing left for him to do now but wrap his arms around Ria and let her cry herself out.

It didn’t take long, maybe a few minutes. Lucky, because Stan didn’t think Ria wanted everyone at the funeral to see her sobbing her eyes out. Hell, she might have even cut herself short on purpose just to avoid that. When she seemed like she was done crying, Stan gave her one last pat on the back and let her go. “Feel better?”

Ria nodded wordlessly, then wiped her nose off on her arm. Stan patted the space on the table next to him and she hopped on up, sitting down between Stan and Jesus there. “I still hate him,” she said. The fierce stubborn tone she was rocking was kind of undercut by the sniffling.

“Okay,” Stan said.

“I do. And I’m not sad he’s gone. I know that it’s bad that he died because it’s always bad when people die, but I’m glad that he’s gone and not coming back,” she insisted.

“I already told you, I’m not disagreeing with you,” Stan said. It seemed to him there was plenty enough reason to be glad Francisco was gone, and it wasn’t like Stan had any room to judge if that was how she really felt. If. “You wanna hear a secret?”

Ria gave him a suspicious look. Smart kid. But after a moment she nodded and said, “Alright.”

“A few years back I was married, just for about six hours.”

“I already knew _that_ ,” Ria said.

“What? Who told you?” Stan asked.

“You did.”

“Really? Huh. Well that part’s not the secret anyway.”

“Then what is?”

“I’m getting to it,” Stan told her. “The year was 1970-something. I had just rolled into Las Vegas, ready to try to make it big. About a week after I got to town I snuck into one of the shows they have down there. All these big song and dance numbers, acrobatics, the works. While I was, there one of the dancers caught my eye. Not any of the main girls, one of the ones in the back. But there was something about her. I could tell she knew she was bigger and better than anyone in that place, and one day she was going to prove it and rub all our faces in it. I like that kind of spirit in a woman. So I snuck backstage after the show was over and asked her out.”

“And she said yes and you both had a crazy romance that night before breaking up the next morning?” Ria guessed.

Stan snorted. “No. She turned me down cold. Then she told me she needed someone to brush her hair for her, and I could do that if I wanted. Marilyn – that was her name, Marilyn – had this amazing hair. Down to her waist and bright red. Like touching fire, that hair. For the show she had to have it all pinned and sprayed up, and afterward she had to take it all down and brush it out again. She showed me what to do, and afterwards told me I was pretty good at it and could come back after the next show. I did, and then again after the next show and the next and the next. She always turned me down when I asked her out, but sometimes she’d have me take her out to this crummy little diner and buy her dinner.” Then she’d take him back to her place and have sex with him and immediately kick him out afterward. Or sometimes she’d skip the diner altogether and just fuck him in the empty dressing room. But Ria probably didn’t need to hear that part of it.

“That went on for, I don’t know, three months? Then one night we were at the diner and she asked me to marry her. Of course I said yes, and twenty minutes later we were being hitched by a guy dressed up like Cupid. Later that night, or I guess the next morning by then, Marilyn told me I was a loser and never been good at anything but brushing hair, but sometimes being with me made her fell less lonely and a little better about herself. Probably the nicest thing she’d said to me the whole time I’d known her. Then she said that that wasn’t worth being shackled to a total failure like me for the rest of her life. She divorced me, and I skipped town immediately after.”

Ria scowled. “Why would she say that? That’s mean.”

“That’s what Marilyn was like,” Stan said with a shrug.

“Then she was _mean_ ; I hate her.”

Stan reached over and ruffled her hair. Ria grabbed his hand, threw it off her head and stuck her tongue out at him. Jeez, this kid. “I’d probably hate her too if I was you.”

“If you were me? You should hate her because you’re you. You’re the one she was mean to.”

“Yeah, well that’s the secret, kid. I don’t hate her. I still love her.”

 “Why? That’s stupid; _why_?”

Because yeah, sure, Marilyn had treated him like shit when she kicked him to the curb, but she had always treated him like shit, so nothing had really changed. Because no matter what Stan had tricked himself into thinking back then, Marilyn had never made any secret of the fact she was just using him, which made one person at least. Because him being in love with her never had anything to do with him or their relationship, and everything to do with who she was and what Stan had seen in her. “Because I’m a stupid man.”

“No you’re not. You’re the smartest person I know,” Ria said.

“You sure about that?”

“Yes,” she said firmly.

“Well then, if a genius like me can still love a woman he only knew for a few months and who was terrible to him the whole time, then it probably wouldn’t make you stupid if, even after he was mean to you, you still loved your dad.”

 It was hard not to laugh at Ria’s expression, the way it contorted through shock and annoyance and confusion and frustration. “You tricked me!”

“And you’re surprised by that? It’s what I do.” She smacked him on the arm, so he reached over and messed her hair up again, getting it all in her face. She pulled it back so she could glare up at him accusingly, and this time Stan really did laugh, just a little. Then he sighed. “Look, at the end of the day I figure you’re going to feel how you’re going to feel, no matter how stupid it is. The important thing is if Marilyn walked in that door right now and got down on one knee, I wouldn’t give her the time of day. I love her, but I know I don’t need that in my life.” Maybe if it was just him he might have been tempted anyway, but it wasn’t. And Ford didn’t need that in his life, and neither did Dipper or Mabel or even Ria. “You love your dad, you hate him, whatever, it’s how it’s going to be. The important thing is you’re not in there with everyone else pretending like he was something he wasn’t just because he’s dead now.”

“It’s still not fair,” Ria said.

“Kid, life ain’t fair. You don’t like it, take it up with the complaints department,” he said, jerking his thumb over toward Jesus on his cross.

“I’m pretty sure that’s blasphemy,” she said.

“Not for me, I’m Jewish.” More or less. Probably. Not really. Not anymore. Eh, he didn’t care either way. “The best way I can figure it Little Miss Ria, is you gotta find what makes you happy – really happy, because I love Marilyn, but she never made me any happier – and you grab onto it and don’t let go for nothing. Maybe it’ll work out, maybe it won’t, but there it is.”

Ria’s hand gripped tight onto his jacket sleeve. She wasn’t looking at him anymore, instead staring straight ahead, her expression stubborn and set. “I’m not letting go.”

Jeez, this kid. How the fuck had this even happened, that’s what Stan would like to know. Because Ford and Dipper and Mabel they were all family, right, but this kid. _This kid_.

Ria made a small distressed sound when Stan pulled his arm away, but he was only moving it so he could wrap around her shoulders and hug her against him. “Yeah, well. Me neither.”


	36. Chapter Thirty-Six

“Ford.”

Ford frowned down at the paper in front of him. He’d gone over this calculation five times now, and it still wasn’t coming out right.

“Ford.”

There had to be something he was overlooking. Probably something obvious.

“Hey Ford.”

He blinked and it felt like sandpaper scrapping across his eyes. Reaching under his glasses, he rubbed at them, which really wasn’t helping the way the numbers were starting to blur together.

“Earth to Stanford Pines. You in there, Sixer?”

Oh wait, that was the problem. He had the wrong variable there. Which meant he was going to have to start this whole thing over at the beginning, four pages ago.

“Ford if you don’t answer me right now, I’m going to burn your journal.”

“What?” Ford yelped. He jerked his eyes away from his calculations and up to his brother. Stanley was standing there with his lighter, cover open and thumb poised to strike, in one hand and Ford’s first journal in the other. Ford snatched the journal away and hugged it close to his chest as he glared accusingly up at his brother. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Relax, I would never actually burn any of your nerd notes,” Stan said, closing the lighter with a casual flick of his wrist. “I was just trying to get your attention.”

“Next time try calling my name,” Ford said.

“I did. About ten times,” said Stan.

“Oh.” That was probably possible. Ford did tend to get a little overly-absorbed in his work at times. Still, he kept a tight grip on his journal and a close watch on Stan’s lighter.

Stan rolled his eyes and lightly tossed the lighter to Ford. Ford fumbled a little and ended up dropping the journal into his lap, but he managed to catch it. “There, now we can talk without you worrying I’m some kind of firebug about to go on a spree.”

Ford made a vague agreeing noise, but he was already distracted again, this time by Stan’s lighter. There was something familiar about it, but he couldn’t quite seem to make his brain connect with what exactly that was. He was certain he’d seen it before, and not just in passing over the past year whenever Stan took it out to use. It was… wait a second… it was, oh. “This is the lighter I got you.” It had been a present. Ford couldn’t remember what it had been a present for anymore, but he had a distinct recollection of picking it out for Stan at the store.

“Yeah, a present because you apparently thought starting our senior year was a gift-worthy occasion,” Stan said.

Right. That was right. And Stan had gotten so annoyed with him because Ford hadn’t told Stan he was planning on getting him a gift, so Stan didn’t have anything to give back. That weekend Stan had driven them to the bookstore, the big one in the city, and that was when Ford had gotten his Tesla poster. He’d totally forgotten that’s where that had come from; it had been so long ago. Ten years. Ford turned Stan’s lighter over in his hands. “You’ve kept this since then?”

“It’s a good lighter,” Stan said. “I’ve had to change the flint out a lot of times by now, but it’s still a good lighter.”

Of course. That was practical. “I still have my Tesla poster too. It’s, um…” Where had he hung that poster? Or maybe had he taken it down for some of his Bill-inspired artwork? “It’s somewhere. I’ll hang back up again later.”

Stan’s lips twitched in amusement. “Ford. It’s a poster. You do what you want with it. But stop changing the subject.”

“I haven’t?” Ford said uncertainly. “Unless you wanted to talk about burning my research, you have yet to introduce a subject of conversation.”

“Oh, right. When’s the last time you slept?”

“Last night,” Ford answered promptly. He knew it was the correct answer, both in being factually true and in being the answer Stan wanted to hear. Hopefully they could leave it at that.

“How long did you sleep for?”

Yeah, that was what Ford was afraid of. “About three hours. Look Stan, I know I’ve not been getting quite as much sleep as usual lately, but I have a lot of work that I need to get done right now. It’s fine. Fiddleford already talked to me about this earlier this evening” – Ford presumed that’s what Fiddleford had been getting at with his delicate hints – “and I’m fine.”

“Yesterday,” Stan said.

“What?”

“It’s four in the morning, so technically Fidds was talking to you about this yesterday.”

Ford blinked a few times. “Why are you in my lab at four in the morning?”

“Why are _you_ in your lab at four in the morning?” Stan countered.

“I’m working,” Ford said. His lab was where he worked ergo, if he was in the lab, he was working. Stan’s expression soured, and Ford realized that Stan had probably intended to ask why Ford was working at this hour when by all rights he should be asleep. It was probably a fair question, even if Stan was Ford’s brother – his technically slightly younger brother – not his parent. “I’ll finish up what I’m doing now, then I’ll go to bed, okay?”

“Or you could go to bed now and finish up whatever it is after you catch some sleep,” Stan said.

“I might lose my train of thought.” Even more so than he already had. “I’ll be fine. I just have to flap harder.”

“You have to _flap harder_? Okay, so clearly things are way worse than I thought if you’re already starting to get delusional. Ford. You do not have wings. Go to sleep.”

“I’m not delusional.” He could go another two weeks at this pace easily before hallucinations became a problem. Not that he intended to let it get that far, not with children in the house. “I was referring to something Fiddleford said earlier. He told me not to forget what happened to Icarus, and I told him that Icarus didn’t flap hard enough.”

Stan didn’t respond right away, clearly thinking about something. Ford wondered if perhaps Stan wasn’t familiar with the myth, or at least not familiar enough to recognize the reference merely from Icarus’s name. Before Ford could offer to clarify further, Stan said, “Wouldn’t that have just killed him faster?”

“What?”

“Wouldn’t flapping harder have made Icarus die faster? I’m thinking of the right guy, right? He’s the one with the wings and he flew too close to the sun which made his wings fall apart… somehow.”

“The heat from the sun melted the wax holding them together,” Ford supplied.

“Sure, that makes sense. So he flew too close to the sun, his wings fell apart, and he crashed to the ground and died,” Stan said.

“Actually he crashed into the sea and drowned,” said Ford.

Stan shrugged. “Same difference.”

“No, it’s an important distinction as it relates to parts of the myth that don’t often come up in casual discussions. You see in the original myth, Daedalus – that’s Icarus’s father who created the wings. You see they had been imprisoned on the island of Crete by King Minos, who wanted to prevent Daedalus from sharing the secrets of the Labyrinth, which Daedalus had also created. The Labyrinth of course being the home to the legendary Minotaur, which is distinct from our local species of manotaur-“

“Ford,” Stan interrupted, snapping his fingers as an underscore. “You had a point about the ocean?”

“Yes, right. In the original myth Daedalus had two warnings for Icarus before they fled with their new wings. The first being not to fly too close to the sun, but the second was not to fly too close to the water, lest the sea spray get in his wings and make them too heavy to fly. The obvious interpretation of the myth is a warning against hubris, as when Icarus flies too close to the sun it kills him, but there’s also a warning in there against complacency, flying too close to the sea. One could argue that the actual lesson is an argument for ambition without arrogance. The importance of finding a happy medium in there.”

“Like having a counterbalance?” Stan suggested.

“Certainly,” Ford agreed. It didn’t fit exactly with the narrative of the myth, but it was all about metaphors and interpretations anyway; it could work. Really Ford was just more excited by Stan’s interest in the greater scope of the myth. Ford had always liked the story better after hearing about the second warning.

“Huh. Well, that’s interesting and all – though it would probably be more interesting if it weren’t four in the morning – but it’s besides the point. Icarus died because his wings fell apart. So if he had flapped harder, they would have just fallen apart faster.”

“That… that can’t be right,” Ford said, even if he was having a hard time thinking of a reason why it wasn’t right.

“Trust me, I know for cheaply made junk. Flapping harder definitely would have killed the guy faster,” said Stan.

“I…” No, Stan was right. Right about the story at least. “Admittedly it wasn’t a perfect metaphor on my part.”

“I don’t know – pushing yourself harder when you’re already falling apart will only make you crash and burn faster? Sounds like a pretty perfect metaphor to me.”

Ford scowled at his brother. He was being deliberately obtuse. Stan stared blankly back just long enough to make it clear he was in no way intimidated. Then he sighed.

Fiddleford’s chair was still pulled up to the desk near Ford. Stan grabbed the back of it and spun it around to face Ford before sinking down into it. He crossed his arms and gave Ford a long look. “You going to tell me what’s going on or not?”

“What’s going on?” Ford echoed, genuinely baffled. “I’m working. Like I always do.”

“No, you don’t always work like this. Yeah, you’ve always worked more than any sane person would, but now you’re working basically non-stop,” Stan said.

“That’s not even remotely true,” Ford objected. “I still take afternoons and evening off from when Dipper and Mabel get home from school until they go to bed, and I took the whole day off Sunday.” Mostly. He did sneak in a little work during those times, but only what he could do at the kitchen table while the kids were busy playing and didn’t require his direct attention. But he always dropped what he was doing whenever they asked him to during that time, and he never went down into the lab or study. If nothing else, he was determined to be a better parent than Steph, and that meant not neglecting his children.

“Fine, you’re right, you do still take off time for the kids. But you also used to take time off for things like sleeping, or just relaxing and chatting with me and Fidds, or trying to get me to join you two in a round of your nerd game. Now you’re either spending time with Dipper and Mabel or you’re working, and what I can’t figure out is why. I thought at first maybe it was because of the fight with Fidds, but you two made up a couple days ago now and you seem to be getting along okay, so that can’t be it. Unless you’ve racked up some huge gambling debts I don’t know about, we’re okay for money right now, so it ain’t that either. So what is it? The college been riding you about getting this project done or something?”

“No, the grant committee hasn’t been pushing me. They seemed satisfied with my progress the last time I spoke with them.”

Ford didn’t know what it was about what he’d just said, but there must have been something, because Stan perked up in interest. “The _grant committee_ hasn’t been pushing you.”

“Yes, that’s what I just said.”

“They haven’t been pushing you, but someone else has,” Stan said.

Ford froze. Bill. Ever since Bill had revealed how very far behind Ford was on the project as compared to Bill’s original projection, he had been… well, pushing was a strong word. He was just no longer shy about reminding Ford how far behind schedule he was and had been encouraging of Ford’s efforts to catch up to where he should be on the project and had, okay, been pushing Ford to work to his limits. But he couldn’t tell Stan that; Stan was bound to unreasonable and not understand that Bill really did only want what was best for Ford and to help Ford reach his full potential. Ford shook the momentary shock off and said, “Don’t be ridiculous. Who else is there that could be pushing me?”

“I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking you. Because if there is someone out there pushing you to work until you drop, and then keep going, then I need to know so I can make the guy take a dirt nap for messing with my brother.”

Ford rolled his eyes. “Don’t be melodramatic.”

“I’m not,” Stan protested, then immediately relented. “Okay, maybe a little a bit. I probably wouldn’t off him right away, maybe try talking to the guy first, maybe rough him up a little bit. But if it came down to it and that was the only way to get him to back off? I would do it.”

There was no questioning Stan’s utter sincerity this time. It wasn’t melodrama. It wasn’t a joke. It was a little frightening. “Stan, you haven’t before… That is, I know the ten years you spent on your own were rough, and I’m not… I wouldn’t… but…”

“No,” Stan said. “I’ve done a lot of things that maybe I regret now, and there were a couple of times it maybe came close to, but that ain’t one of them.” That was a relief. Ford had been telling the truth, or trying to tell it; he wouldn’t judge if it had turned out that Stan had. That Stan had killed someone. Stan could be callous and selfish at times, but he wasn’t malicious, and if he had killed someone, there would have been a very good reason for it. But still. It was a relief.

“But you know, Ford,” Stan continued. “If it did come down to that with that guy, it still wouldn’t be a thing I regretted.”

Ford didn’t know how to respond to that. It must have showed because Stan took one look at him and explained further. “You’re _not sleeping_ Ford. Practically at all. That kind of thing’s not good for you. That kind of thing can kill you; trust me. Way I see it, that means it’s you or him, and I’m not going to regret picking my brother over the guy that’s been harassing him. I wouldn’t regret picking you over anyone, except maybe the kids.”

“Definitely except the kids,” Ford said. Ford wouldn’t hesitate for an instant to sacrifice himself if it was to save his kids if the situation arose, and he wouldn’t want Stan to hesitate either if the decision fell to him.

“Okay, got it,” Stan said. “So first it’s Dipper and Mabel, second is you, and then third is… eh, I don’t really care. Fuck the rest of the world.”

Ford couldn’t help a small smile at that. Both because that sort of brutal honesty was so typically Stan, and because they both knew there were more names on the list of people Stan cared about than that, and that sort of dishonesty was also typically Stan. “I suppose I can’t argue with your priorities,” Ford said.

“Good. Then you’ll tell me who this guy is,” said Stan.

Ford had forgotten that was where this train of conversation had started and that Stan would still be expecting an answer to that question. “There’s no guy,” he said.

Stan looked at him suspiciously. “You sure about that?”

“Why wouldn’t I be sure?”

“You don’t sound sure.”

“Well I am. There is no guy.” It wasn’t really a lie. Maybe Bill had been pushing a little, but not excessively. He hadn’t been forcing Ford to do anything he didn’t want to do. He certainly wasn’t trying to work Ford until he died of exhaustion like Stan was suggesting. Bill was just trying to help. It wasn’t a lie. Not really.

“Okay, so if there’s no guy, then what is going on with you?”

Stan really wasn’t going to take no answer for an answer was he? But Ford couldn’t answer him because even though it wasn’t Bill’s fault, knowing about Bill was still necessary for the context of the answer. Ford opened his mouth to say something, anything, and found himself blurting out, “Because this is the one thing I can do for our family.”

He fully expected Stan to argue with that. Ford didn’t even necessarily believe that was true himself most days. He was very aware of his own failings as a brother and parent, but he was also aware Stan and the kids approved of the job he was doing regardless, so Ford must have been doing something right, something beyond being the genius breadwinner. So he expected Stan to argue.

He certainly had not expected Stan to stare at him for a beat, then abruptly stand up, declare, “Okay, time for bed,” and grab Ford’s arm to pull him into a standing position as well.

“What are you doing, Stanley?” Ford demanded, yanking his arm away and staying firmly seated.

“I told you, I’m going to bed, and so are you. Because I could have sworn I just heard you say that the only thing you’re good for in this family is your genius nerd stuff. But you couldn’t possibly have said that, so I must be tired and hearing things. So bed, and we can finish this conversation in the morning,” Stan said.

“You aren’t hearing things.”

“Then I was right the first time, and you’re so tired you’re delusional. Either way.”

“I am not delusional.”

“You sure about that? Because that is literally the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard you say, Sixer. I’ve known you since you were born, and I’ve heard you say a lot of stupid things, but that by far the stupidest. It’s too stupid to argue with – I think it’s too stupid to argue with, me, that’s how stupid it is. So you’re going to go to bed and sleep until you can think straight again,” Stan said, and really, only he could make refusing to argue the most convincing argument.

Ford glanced back down at his work. Odds were not in favor of Stan agreeing to leave unless Ford came upstairs with him. On the other hand, he really only needed five to ten more minutes, fifteen at the most, to finish everything that he had wanted to today. That wasn’t that much longer; his sleep schedule would hardly notice the difference. And Bill would be pleased if Ford could tell him he was keeping up with the new accelerated schedule.

“You’re sure there’s no one outside of your own delusional mind forcing you to work constantly?” Stan asked.

“Yes, I am very sure of that,” Ford agreed.

“Well in that case, we’ve got you who wants to keep working, me who thinks you should go to bed, Fidds who thinks you should go to bed, and Dipper and Mabel who think you should go to bed-“

“Dipper and Mabel?” Ford echoed.

“Yeah, they’re smart kids Ford, they’ve noticed how tired you are. Why do you think Mabel wanted hot chocolate before bed tonight?”

“She always wants hot chocolate before bed,” Ford replied.

“Yeah, but tonight her excuse was that it would help you fall to sleep. That makes it four-to-one, you’re going to bed,” said Stan.

Ford should probably point out that his personal decisions were not open to being made by committee, but if the kids really were starting to get worried about it too… “Okay,” Ford agreed, standing up, “bedtime. Thank you, Stan.” He wasn’t even entirely sure what he was thanking his brother for, but it seemed like the thing to do.

“Hey, someone’s got to save you from your own stupidity,” Stan said. “And come to think of it, I still gotta save you from something, since you refuse to go bear-baiting for me.”

Ford laughed, finding Stan’s comment a good deal more amusing than he ought to. So maybe Stan had a point about the sleep-deprivation thing. “Single parenthood doesn’t count as a metaphorical bear, but my own stupidity does?”

“Nah,” Stan said. He opened the elevator doors and they both got in. “It’s closer though.”

“What exactly are the qualifications for a metaphorical bear?” Ford asked.

Stan shrugged. “I’ll know it if I see it.”

“Okay, well keep me” – Ford yawned – “keep me informed.” He leaned back against the elevator wall and let his eyes slip closed. Now that he’d agreed to sleep, he was realizing he really was very tired.

“Hey,” Stan said. He kicked Ford in the shoe. “You still got to stay awake a few more minutes. I am not carrying your ass to bed.”

“Mmmmm, ‘kay,” Ford said.

“Fine, sleep on the elevator if you want. Just give me my lighter back first.”

Stan’s lighter. That’s right, Stan had given it to him. And Ford hadn’t given it back. Maybe it was in his pocket? Without opening his eyes, he reached into his pants pocket and rummaged through the odds and ends stuck in there. He found Stan’s lighter and held it out in his open palm in the general direction he thought Stan was in.

A moment later he felt Stan take it from it. He let his arm drop limply back to his side. “Thanks,” Stan said. “I like to make sure I’m keeping track of this thing. It was a gift you know, from someone pretty important to me.”

Ford felt his lips curl up into a sleepy smile, and that was about the last thing he remembered before falling to sleep.


	37. Chapter Thirty-Seven

_Ford opened his eyes to the mindscape and found himself distinctly unexcited to be there. Hardly surprising, given he’d just deliberately chosen to forsake keeping on schedule for a few extra minutes of sleep. But when he thought about it, he couldn’t actually remember the last time he'd been truly excited to be here. Couldn’t remember the last time he’d entered the mindscape to tea thoughtfully set for two and a chess board waiting for Bill’s opening move. Couldn’t remember the last time he’d been eager to impress Bill instead of anxious not to let him down._

_Bill appeared before him, and when Stanford smiled it was only slightly forced. Bill was his friend. If he’d been a little over-invested in the portal recently, well inspiring Stanford to greatness was his job after all. Besides, it wasn’t anything more than Stanford himself was guilty of. He was being ridiculous._

_“Hey there, Sixer. Stanley bossing you around again, huh? Someone ought to tell that lug he’s here to parent the rug rats, not you,” Bill said._

_“Stan is just concerned about my well-being,” Ford said waspishly. Unfairly so, as he had had a similar thought about the matter earlier, but it felt different coming from Bill._

_“Hey, calm down, no one’s questioning his good intentions, just his methods,” Bill said. “That, and you know what they say about good intentions.”_

_“What do you mean by that?” Ford demanded._

_“Nothing. Jeez, you sure are crabby tonight. I’m just here to help you out, but if you don’t want to talk to me…”_

_“No, no, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have snapped,” Stanford said quickly._

_“You’re human; you can’t help your dumb emotions sometimes. I forgive you. All I was trying to get at was I don’t think Stanley understands how important your work on this portal is.”_

_“Oh, I’m sure he doesn’t fully grasp the entire scope of it. But I don’t think it would matter to him regardless.” He had practically explicitly said as much earlier. Dipper and Mabel first, then Ford, then fuck the rest of the world. Changing the world, possibly, probably even saving the world, came in distant second to Ford’s well-being as far as Stan was concerned. Ford didn’t know if that was right or if he agreed with it, but he couldn’t argue with it either. Even if he could, he knew he wouldn’t be able to change Stan’s mind. It might be a little frightening in its intensity in some ways, but it was comforting too._

_“You’re probably right,” Bill agreed. “That’s why you’re the genius of the two of you. Though I guess even a stopped clock is right twice a day.”_

_Stanford liked the descriptor of Stan as a stopped clock even less than he liked Bill’s earlier comments, but he didn’t want to upset Bill again either. “How do you mean?” he asked in a calm, level tone._

_“You do need to sleep more. You can’t keep up with the schedule we set for you.”_

_“I’m sorry,” Stanford said. “I really have been trying to push myself as hard as possible to keep up, but-“_

_“Hey, hey, it’s not your fault your frail human body is just incapable of doing what I expected of you. That’s why I’m here, because I felt bad for you and all the limitations you have being a weak little human, and I wanted to help.”_

_“Really? That would be great; thank you,” Stanford enthused. “What did you have in mind? I know we seemed to run into the upper limits of the specific details of what I could recall from the time we spent working in the mindscape while I’m asleep, but maybe if we try again…”_

_“No, I got something more direct in mind this time. I’ve been thinking, when you’re asleep it’s not your body that needs the rest, it’s your brain that needs to go offline for a while to recharge itself. So why should your body get to lay there like a useless lump when there’s work to be done?”_

_“That’s an intriguing notion, but my body can’t do any work if it’s not receiving directions from my brain,” Stanford pointed out._

_“Not necessarily. You’re not the only one in your head these days. All we have to do is make a deal, and then while you’re asleep and not using your body anyway, I can slip in and take over for a while. You can get your sleep and I’ll use your body to get done whatever work needs to be done to keep you on schedule.” Bill theatrically extended his hand to shake, blue flames bursting into being around it. “Whaddya say?”_

_The words, the_ implication _of the words hit Stanford like a blow. He half-expected to be sent reeling with the force of it. Instead he stood there shock-still. A word dropped from his lips as small as he felt. “No.”_

_He imagined – he had to have imagined it – he saw Bill, the flames, the entire mindscape go bright, searing, hateful red. Then it was gone in less than an eye blink. He_ had to _have imagined it. He had to._

_“What was that?” Bill asked. Each word was carefully picked, precisely annunciated._

_Stanford’s palms were sweating like they could already feel the heat of flames pressed against them. His stomach had dropped somewhere down into his knees. His fingertips felt numb. “I appreciate the offer, I_ greatly _appreciate it. I’m honored you are willing to go that far to help me, but I…” He licked his lips. “I don’t think it’s a good idea. No.”_

_“Why. Not.”_

_He didn’t know. He didn’t know why the suggestion caused dread to settle and spread knot-like in his chest until it felt like he couldn’t breathe. He trusted Bill. Bill was his friend. It was an exceedingly practical suggestion. It would allow the work to get done while still giving Stanford time to take care of himself, leaving everyone satisfied and happy. And he trusted Bill, with his life. But this was more than just his life. Bill was already free to move in and out of Stanford’s mind as he pleased, so to give him access to Ford’s body was a lot. Too much. He couldn’t… he couldn’t…_

_“STANFORD.” Every line of Bill’s body was rigid. But that was a nonsense thought. Bill was a triangle with stick limbs and a single eye; there was hardly enough of him for body language or facial expression. Not to mention Bill had barely moved an iota since Ford’s first no, his hand still outstretched for the deal. Stanford’s entire arm tingled. It would be so easy, so much easier, just to take it back, to reach up and take that fiery hand. He didn’t want to let Bill down; he couldn’t upset him. But every line of Bill’s body was rigid, hard, and unyielding, and if he touched Bill now, Stanford would shatter into a thousand pieces._

_“The kids,” Ford blurted out, desperate for some excuse. “What if Dipper and Mabel wake up from a nightmare and come find me while it’s actually you in my body?” He’d offered it as an excuse, but the more he thought on it, the more his horror grew. What if that did happen? What would he appear like to them then? Would it be like mind control in old cartoons with his eyes startlingly blank and pupil-less? Or would he take on Bill’s yellow cat eyes? Or most frightening of all, maybe he would appear exactly the same as he always did._

_“Then I’ll just pretend to be you and send them back to bed. Easy,” Bill said._

_“No!” Ford was neither stupid, nor entirely oblivious. He was aware that Bill was not especially fond of Dipper and Mabel. Stanford just didn’t take it personally because he knew Bill didn’t mean it personally. Bill was Stanford’s muse, and his job was to inspire Stanford’s work. From a very practical perspective the kids were an impediment to that cause, so it was logical that Bill might find them an annoyance. Stanford was sure that if Bill got to know them on a personal level he would come to like them – he couldn’t imagine anyone with a heart not liking Dipper and Mabel if given the chance to know them – but as Stanford had explicitly asked Bill not to go into their minds, Bill had never gotten the opportunity. That was alright, because he still understood how important Dipper and Mabel were to Ford, and even tried to help Stanford with them on occasion. It had been Bill’s suggestion that Stanford get help with the children, and look how well that had turned out, in ways that he couldn’t have ever imagined at the time. None of which changed the fact that Bill wasn’t fond of the children and Ford absolutely could not have them see that in his eyes and think it was coming from Ford._

_“No,” Stanford repeated. “I won’t lie to them, especially not about something like that, but telling them the truth wouldn’t work either. They don’t know who you are, they don’t even know you exist, so trying to explain this to them would only confuse and upset them. For their sake, I can’t take your deal.”_

_“That’s the only reason. Because the kids don’t know who I am and you think it’ll upset them.”_

_“Yes,” Stanford said. That was a lie. Every nerve in his body screaming on edge at the very notion was a separate reason, but better a lie than that truth._

_There was a long moment of silence, stretched thin and taunt like a tightrope. Then Bill waved his hand, shaking away the flames and calling up a blackboard with the calculations Stanford had abandoned at Stan’s urging earlier. “Fine. We can try it your way for now.”_

_Stanford felt like he’d just thrown up, weak and shaking and hollowed out and immensely better than he had been minutes before. He had been being ridiculous, panicking with no call for it. Bill had made a practical suggestion, that was all. Stanford had said no, and Bill had understood. He’d never force Stanford to do something he didn’t want to. “Thank you.”_

_“Sure thing, Sixer,” Bill said. “After all, I am your friend.”_


End file.
